


Rapunzel (NSFW)

by eratothemuse



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, NSFW, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, This is pure filth, Unprotected Sex, age gap, innocence/corruption kink, not safe for work, quentin beck owns my ass and we all know it, so what did you really expect of me, virgin!reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:02:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21782638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eratothemuse/pseuds/eratothemuse
Summary: “Come on, Rapunzel, don’t you ever want to let down your hair?”It’s no secret that Tony Stark’s daughter is the apple of his eye, doted on in every way. Showered in adoration, love, and his protection. Smothered in it. You’re sheltered and naïve, which is exactly what Quentin Beck likes about you, and you’re more than ready to figure out what life is like from out beneath your father’s thumb. This man just might be the death of you.
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Original Female Character(s), Quentin Beck/Reader, Quentin Beck/You, Tony Stark & Reader
Comments: 34
Kudos: 287





	1. Rapunzel, Rapunzel

**Author's Note:**

> Y’all just let me live my dream of dressing nice and sleeping with Q.B. alright??? 😩😩😩 Ignore me, this is pure filth.

_**Rapunzel (NSFW)** _

Photo sources: [1](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/187851677827/velvet-buzzsaw-premiere-i-cant) | [2](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/188174469662/sankihicolmamisgibi-gyllenhaal) | [3](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/187694994342)

“Sweetheart,” your father grins. He’s all smiles tonight, and when he takes you under his arm you can smell the bourbon on his breath, “Finally come by to say, ‘hello,’ to the rest of us, huh?”

He was picking at you, and you roll your eyes. Tony loved making you squirm in front of the team, just as much as he loved parading you in front of them.

Steve is your only solace, gesturing between you and Tony helpfully, “Ah, Tony, let her go. She made her appearance, didn’t she?” The Captain purses his lips at you, informing, “He wouldn’t stop talkin’ about it. Half thought he was about to go hunt you down himself.”

“Can’t have a Christmas party without the gift of your company,” Tony shoots back sarcastically.

You offer Steve an appreciative smile at having cut your father’s teasing short for now. Most people seemed to assume you loved parties— you were Tony Stark’s daughter, after all. How couldn’t you? Like father, like daughter, _right_?

Well, contrary to the tabloids, they were wrong. Everything they printed about you, from that smear campaign about _the Stark party heiress_ to that one time they had printed a completely fabricated story about how you and _The Winter Soldier_ himself were having an affair, was false.

You went to parties when your father asked you to, and sometimes you even enjoyed them, but you certainly weren’t the party girl the papers seemed to think you were. You’d never even gotten drunk, at most a little tipsy, and you were lucky if you could get a date with a guy with the way Tony hovered, let alone have an _affair_. In fact, your dad had drilled you for a week looking for any truth after the tabloid in question, until he was thoroughly satisfied you weren’t actually running around with Bucky Barnes in secret. You could barely look Bucky in the eye the next time you had seen him.

In actuality, right about now you would much rather be curled up on the couch with Wanda watching the newest episode of _The Bachelorette_. Maybe if you left a little early, you could catch the last bit of the episode. Wishful thinking.

“Guess you get off easy tonight, kid,” Tony grins at you, and you peck him on the cheek in your gratefulness, the scruff of his beard pricking just a bit. His eyes slip down your dress, a frown setting in as he raises a scrutinizing brow, “Not that you don’t look beautiful— you always are, kiddo— but isn’t that dress a little short?”

“What are you talking about, Dad?” you look down at the dark black that hugged your best features and hid your worst, settling a few inches above your thigh appropriately, “Pepper was the one who picked it out!”

“It could use a couple more inches,” he pouts, and Steve’s too busy avoiding the topic entirely by taking a never-ending sip of his beer to jump in and help you on this one.

Thankfully, Natasha smacks your father’s shoulder, “Let the girl live a little, Tony! She can’t very well come to a party wearing a nun’s habit!” When he seems to consider it for even a moment, her tone flattens as she scolds him dryly, “She can’t.” Turning her attention to you, she ignores the frown she earns from Tony as she compliments, “I think you look great, and that dress is _more_ than appropriate.”

“Thanks, you look amazing, too,” you laugh, and Tony sighs defeatedly, knowing he wasn’t going to win with the Black Widow on your side. You honestly wish you could get away with what she was wearing to this party, but your dad would probably have an aneurysm if you tried it. She was stunning, in a red sequin cocktail dress that was much tighter and shorter than your own, matching red lipstick perfectly outlining her lips. It screamed _Christmas party goddess_ , and was quite the attention-getter. But then again, anything Natasha wore always looked amazing on her.

“Well, dads will be dads, I guess,” he finally concedes, giving you one last peck on the cheek before releasing you to your own devices. “Go have some fun, sweetheart.”

“I will. Probably going to head out after a little bit, after I finish making the rounds for you,” you grin at him. “ _The Bachelorette’s_ calling my name, ya’ know.”

“That’s my girl,” you leave Tony lingering with the Avengers, knowing the drill of these parties by now. Greet the partners, mingle with a few higher-ups that worked for Pepper and your dad, then you were home free. At corporate parties like these, especially the Christmas party, you had to put on a good face for the company. Be the girl that would instill confidence in the investors, since you would be running Stark Industries one day, if your dad had any say in it.

It takes all of thirty minutes to find yourself on the other side of the room, near the large windows framing this floor of the Tower and cornered by Janice Lincoln, who seemed determined to milk you for all of your life story. She was nice enough, but you were starting to get a little annoyed with the woman’s prying.

“It must be exciting, being near graduation from M.I.T.,” she giggles, finger tracing the rim of her champagne glass as she leans close like you were good girlfriends. You are not.

“Yes, ma’am,” you awkwardly shift from foot to foot, cursing your choice in heels and the fact that this conversation had gone on longer than you could stand, “I head to campus in the Spring, and then it’s right back here after graduation.”

“Any plans for after that? Will you be working under your father? I’m sure he must have big plans for you,” she presses, either not noticing or not caring that you’ve been trying to politely end the conversation for the past five minutes.

“Possibly, I was thinking of taking a little break, first, though,” you hated talking about your plans for the future. Everyone seemed to want to know them, but you felt as if you had barely lived at all up until now. Your whole life had been school, or helping your father. Then there was the whole saving-the-world thing that left you at the end of your rope with worry for your family whenever some new villain popped up.

You wanted to just relax for a month or two, in all honesty, but the pressure to live up to your father’s expectations and the Stark legacy loomed over your every move, forcing you onwards and into a productive future. Not that it was a bad thing, but questions like this did get tiring, especially when you knew any answer you gave would either taste like a lie, or disappoint the person on the receiving end of it.

Janice is in the midst of telling you all about how you should _not_ take a break, and she has some great project you could cut your teeth on, if you’d only tell your father about it, when your eyes are drawn to your left. Across the floor, near the open bar, you capture the gaze of a man. His dark brown hair is perfectly styled, but you can tell there’s a little bit of length to it. His blue eyes, trained on your form in a way that only told you he had been watching you for some time before you’d noticed him, and, oh, so blue with the way the twinkling lights from the nearby fir tree caught in them. A dinner jacket covers broad shoulders, fitted in a way that could only be tailored, but the shirt beneath is a simple crew neck sweater, his gold chain glinting in the low light of the party and catching your eye. He looks delicious, and sparks something you didn’t often feel, deep in your belly. Your attention snaps back to Janice when he smirks and holds up his glass in a sort of greeting, catching your stare. Your under no disillusion that he had missed the way you had checked him out.

He was gorgeous, and you were blushing madly.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, interrupting her. You hadn’t heard a word she’d said since he had caught your attention, “What was that you were saying?”

“Oh, I was just talking about the project, dear! It’s really quite interesting—” God help you, you can’t focus on a single word, because in your peripheral he has abandoned his spot at the bar to take up a leisurely pace towards you, closing the distance with each step of his long strides.

“Janice,” his voice is soft, unexpected as he interrupts her upon getting close enough to place a gentle grip on her shoulder, “how have you been?”

“Ah, Quentin,” she smiles up at him fondly, and that’s when it clicks for you just who he is. You hadn’t even recognized him without the beard. “I’ve been very good! Merry Christmas!”

He returns the sentiment, but his eyes quickly slip back to find yours, and suddenly you manage to think that _The Bachelorette_ can wait a little while longer, when he offers you his hand, “Quentin Beck. We met, but it was a couple of months ago—”

You take it, trying not to focus on how much larger it is than your own, and how warm he is, or the firmness to his grip that seems to linger with his handshake, “When I was last in town, during fall break. I remember you, Mister Beck. Your work is on holographic systems, isn’t it? From what I remember of my father’s explanation, it sounded interesting.” _As if_ you could forget him. Even in the brief introduction you had all that time ago, in the span of a few moments as you breezed through your father’s office, you had thought Quentin Beck to be quite the looker.

His eyes seem to light up as you mention his work, and his hand returns to his side, “Yeah, but who wants to talk shop at a party?” He did, clearly, but his gaze slips to Janice instead, almost accusatory with his mild suggestion as he watches her beyond the next sip of his drink.

She sighs, looking at you in a hint of apology, “That is true. I’m afraid I get carried away sometimes, but if you do decide to take me up on my offer, let me know.” She glances towards the bar, holding up her empty champagne glass, “I’m going to get another drink. Excuse me, won’t you?”

“Sure,” you both mimic, laughing at the coincidence as she abandons you both in favor of the bar.

“You looked like you needed some saving,” Quentin begins, moving a careful step closer.

“You could tell?” you sigh, rubbing your forearm with a guilty self-consciousness, “I’m not too good at this, I guess.”

“Good at what?”

“Pretending to be interested,” you felt bad about it, really you did, but you could only hide how you felt for so long. Your father always did say how you would be a terrible politician, because your face gave you away every time.

“Ah,” he sighs in understanding, lips quirking upwards at your confession. “Honestly? I’m not either.” He shrugs, sipping his drink, before he seems to come up with an idea that has him grinning down at you in all mischievous intent, “Hey, how about we make a deal? You don’t pretend to be interested and neither will I.”

You scoff, blurting before you thought better of it, “I don’t think pretending to be interested is anyone’s problem when it comes to you, Mister Beck.” Your eyes go wide when you realize what you’ve said, barely able to meet his amused observation as you look to the view beyond the window instead.

“I could say the same for you,” he moves a little closer, and you can smell his cologne. He contemplates you with a bit more scrutiny, until he asks, “How much longer are you planning on staying? You usually leave these things pretty quick, I’ve noticed.”

“Oh, you’ve noticed, have you?” you raise a brow at him. How many parties had you gone to that he had been at, without you knowing? In the sea of people who would attend your father’s soirées, you weren’t surprised you had missed him, but you were surprised he had kept an eye out for you.

“It’s hard not to notice you, princess,” Quentin chuckles, and you feel yourself heat up from head to toe. You weren’t stupid enough to miss his flirting, but the fact that he was flirting _at all_ with you is enough to have you melting into a puddle of embarrassment. There’s a tease in his voice as he adds, “When your father lets you out of the Ivory Tower, that is.”

“He’s just a _little_ protective,” you defend, but the look he gives you tells you he’s right, and you know it. “It’s just the way he is.”

“Sure, sure,” he begins, but you know enough to be suspicious of his complacent tone. In good judgement, too, because a smirk bites at his lips as he jokes softly not a moment later, “I bet you do whatever _Daddy_ tells you to, don’t you?” It’s so screwed up how his tone and the way his gaze lingers on yours suggestively sends a shiver of lust rushing down your spine, arousal pooling in your belly. You don’t give him the dignity of an answer, but he doesn’t seem to need you to, content on teasing you just a little bit more, “Don’t tell me you’ve never been a little rebellious.”

Your face must give away more than you want it to, yet again, because he raises a brow as he lets out a huff of a laugh, “Really? Not at all? Not even once?”

“I didn’t say anything,” you try your best to glare at him, but you can’t, not with the way he was looking at you, and just how reciprocated his interest was on your part.

“You have to have had a rebellious phase. Everyone does,” he hums, trying to figure you out as he squints at you a bit, “Okay, let me guess, you snuck out of the house?” He must not get the answer he wants in your eyes, because he continues, “Took a boy up to your room?” _Wrong again._ He sighs, “You’ve gotta’ have done more than just a little backtalk here and there! I can’t believe you’re that innocent, honey.”

“What can I say,” you laugh, shrugging as you turn to lean against one of the beams between the windows, facing him, “I’m just a sweetheart, I guess.”

“No-one’s that perfect.”

“Not perfect,” you correct, breathing slowly as you try to steady the racing of your heart, “just obedient.”

Quentin leans close, and you find yourself relishing in the way his hand comes to rest on the window beside your face, a bit of a dare in his tone, “Come on, _Rapunzel_ , don’t you ever want to let down your hair?”

Your laugh is strained, but your voice isn’t as shaky as you had expected it to be, your attention flickering down to catch the smirk framing his lips, “And how would you suggest I do that, Mister Beck?”

“Well,” he draws it out, as if tasting the word on his tongue, considering it, despite the fact that he’s planned his proposal since the moment he laid eyes on you, “it’s never too late for a little rebellion. Where do you want to start?”

“I wouldn’t know the first place to start,” you confess.

“It could start with you getting out of here with me,” there it is, his offer, out in the open, and yet polite enough for you to reject him if you wanted. But Quentin Beck seems pretty smug that you weren’t going to refuse him, or push him away from the short distance he had acquired in these past few minutes shared between you, and the way he’s looking at you is anything but polite. At your stunned silence, he prompts, voice low enough to set your soul on fire, “What do you say, _Rapunzel_? Don’t you deserve a little freedom?”

This was hardly your first time being propositioned, but it _was_ your first time heavily considering it. It was so unlike you, really, but you wanted to give in to him. Call it the one drink you had at the start of the party, or maybe the fact that Quentin Beck was drop dead gorgeous in his own right, but either way, you find yourself managing a self-conscious nod. _Yes_.

Tonight, you were sick of being the girl locked in the tower. Tonight, you wanted to live a little.

“Let’s get out of here, then.”

“Good choice,” his grin only widens, the bright white of his teeth grazing his bottom lip before you reach out to take his drink from his hand. It’s almost empty, no more than a sip, but you knew well enough that you were going to need it to get you to the elevator without chickening out.

You knock it back, finishing it, before brushing it back into his fingers, “This way.”

You don’t wait to see if he’s following you, the heat of his gaze on the low cut of the back of your dress is all the confirmation you need. You don’t get too far ahead of him before he catches up, a hand finding the small of your bare back as he deposits his glass along the counter of the bar on your way towards the elevators.

Janice is sitting at the end of it, and for a moment you’re worried she’ll see you leaving with him, but she’s too enthralled in speaking with the bartender to even notice your escape. You silently thank whoever’s listening, because the last thing you needed in your life was more gossip. Or worse, for your father to find out.

The elevator opens with the push of a button, and as you step into it, you feel Quentin pull you flush against him, lips in your ear, “I’ve wanted to get my hands on you all night.”

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” your voice does shake this time, with the way his lips blazed against your throat; you swallow, willing yourself to be steadier, “take me to my floor.”

He’s spinning you in his arms, pressing you against the wall of the elevator, before she can even finish her proper, _“Yes, Miss Stark.”_

Quentin Beck is not your first kiss. Let’s get that straight right here and now. No, your first kiss was in your sophomore year of college, with a boy who you were far too enthralled by the experience of _having_ your first kiss to worry about whether he was any good at it or not, or whether you liked him for more than that moment.

No, Quentin Beck may not be the first man to have ever kissed you, but he certainly is the first man to ever kiss you like _this_. Hand at the base of your neck, resting there as his lips capture yours, dominant against you as he presses his growl onto your tongue and his teeth graze your bottom lip just enough to remind you they’re there. He kisses you like he’s prepared to ravage you, right here in this elevator, the floor dinging off in announcement, and he still doesn’t stop.

Not until the elevator opens, and he’s utterly satisfied with the look of dazed bewilderment in your eyes.

“Honey,” he chuckles, “don’t tell me, you’ve never been kissed before?”

“I have,” you breathe, as he brushes his thumb along your neck and raises a brow like he doesn’t quite believe you. You don’t dare to tell him the whole truth of it, but it doesn’t seem to matter.

Quentin nods to the open elevator door, “Show me around, won’t you, princess?”

“Yeah, right,” you fumble, moving onto your floor, still dazed by his kiss. You could still feel the warmth of his lips, taste him on your tongue. All you can think about is kissing him again, when you move into the open space of your living room.

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” he scoffs behind you, and you raise a brow at him. His eyes slide from their scrutiny of your home to you, as he offers an explanation, “Daddy dotes on you, huh?” You’re about to answer, but the shadow to his gaze stops you, as he steps forward, hands on reaching for your hips to tug you flush against him.

You’re breathless, and he’s breathing against your lips, “You’re Daddy’s little girl, aren’t you?”

When you nod against him, his smirk returns, his hands slipping around your body, reaching behind you to grasp the zipper of your dress, and you let him tug it down, “Wonder what Daddy would think, if he knew what his little angel was about to do for me?”

The gasp you let out is as much from shock at his words as it is in arousal, and you feel your dress slack against your body. Quentin’s hands slip up your arms, to the straps of the dress, pushing it down with a devilish satisfaction. He had you right where he wanted you.

“It’s okay, honey. Daddy doesn’t have to know,” he coos, and your dress falls to your ankles. He leans back, taking a nice long, from your head to your toes, look at you. If the breeze along your bare nipples didn’t stiffen them, his gaze certainly did. It makes you flush, and the incessant urge to cover yourself from his gaze gnaws at the back of your mind, but you subdue it.

When Quentin’s eyes snap back to your own, he levels you with the husky tone to his voice, and the dirty question on his tongue, “Think you can be a good little girl for me, too, princess?”

Your voice is weak, a soft whisper, as you play his game happily, “Y-Yeah.”

His thumb and forefinger find your chin, tilting your head back so he can place another kiss on your lips, but this one is more subdued, lasting only long enough to leave you wanting more. When he lets you go, he moves to sit in the middle of your couch, and when he settles, he gestures you over with the crook of his index finger.

“First, why don’t you take those pretty little panties off for me, honey?” his legs were spread just enough for you to stand between them and, if he saw the panic flash over your features, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

Slowly, warily, you hook your fingers into the straps of your underwear, slipping them down your thighs as instructed and, when they’re at your ankles, you step out of them. Kicking them to the side.

Quentin’s leaned back, hand resting along his jaw as he watches you strip for him, the tent in his pants and the smirk at his lips his only signs of appreciation until, finally, he tells you what to do next, “Good job, honey. Now, turn for me. Let me take a good look at you.” You think he’s just as bad as your father— he just likes to watch you squirm.

You take a careful, calculated breath, desperate to keep a semblance of composure as you stand before him in nothing more than your heels, before doing as he asks. Slowly, you turn, and by the time your more than three-fourths of the turn through, his hands are slipping up your thighs, urging you closer as he looks up at you like a man starved.

“Beautiful,” he admires, and you don’t care if it’s real or not, because right now all you want him to do is tell you that while he fucks you until you aren’t anymore.

“Quentin,” you whisper, for the first time, arms lounging around his shoulders as he pulls you to settle in his lap, and he kisses you again. Really, truly kisses you this time. No teasing, or games, just unadulterated passion as his tongue slips along yours and you sit flush along the straining of his dick in his trousers.

He was big, you could tell through the fabric, and the thought both excites and frightens you.

Then he’s turning, hands on your back, until he lays you down on the cold leather of the couch beneath him, groaning into your kiss as your fingers mess up the careful brush of his hair. You want him, more than you’d wanted anything, you decide, and you would have him.

When his hand slips from your thigh to between them, you mewl into his mouth, jolting at the feeling of his fingers pressing along your clit, rubbing you crazy. His stubble scratches, as he kisses down your jaw, to your ear, groaning darkly there.

“Has anyone ever touched you like this before, honey?” The answer catches in your chest, and his fingers press harsher as he glances at you from the corner of his eye, “Answer me.”

“N-No,” a confession on the edge of a moan, and you don’t know whether to be proud or ashamed of your virginity in this moment. Would he want the inexperience you had to offer him? Would it turn him off?

Your worries are short lived, because he groans deep, nipping at your neck as he slips a finger knuckle-deep within you, leaving you gasping for air as he grits between his teeth, “I’m going to absolutely ruin you.”

Mewling under his fingers, feeling so hot you can barely stand it, you dare him, “Do it.”

His hand between you stops, pulling out, but for him to spread you further as he pushes your knees up, ordering with a stern look from between them, “Keep them there, and don’t you dare try to keep any of those sounds quiet, princess. I want to hear them all.”

You nod dumbly, about to ask what he was going to do, but when he bends to kiss at your inner thigh, you get the picture pretty damn clearly. You can barely believe it, and you almost close your thighs around his head as a reflex, until he shoots you another warning glance.

Quentin kisses at your clit, and you let out a shaky breath, “You’re so wet, honey.” He grazes his teeth along your inner thigh, pushing his finger back within you teasingly, “Who are you so wet for?”

His voice is too damn steady, far too innocent sounding, for him to be saying such filthy things.

“You,” you murmur, and he licks you slow as reward.

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to speak up,” he taunts, “I can’t hear you from down here, _Rapunzel_.”

You huff out a laugh, before admitting a little louder, head falling back into the couch cushions as he starts to eat you out in earnest, “You— Quentin— it’s for you— ah…” Your hand flies to his shoulder, gripping into his dinner jacket, as you feel his fingers and tongue working you over from the inside out. Sure, you had gotten yourself off before, but everything about this was new, uncharted territory. He was so big between your thighs, everything about him so masculine— all _man_ , from the size of his fingers within you to the scratch of his stubble on your inner thighs.

You were going to lose your mind at this rate.

He has you a mess in record time, using a second finger to stretch you a little more and leave you begging for… what? What were you begging for, other than the desperate _please, Quentin, please_ dripping from your tongue over and over again?

All you knew, was it definitely wasn’t for him to stop.

He moans into your cunt, when you tug at his hair, pulling him closer and he gives it to you. Fingers drawing out your pleasure on his tongue, drowning between your thighs and the scent of you, he groans just as deep as before, and the feeling shakes you to your core.

You cum before you even think to tell him about it, arching from the cushions, gasping for air, thighs quaking around his head as he keeps you steady through it. Up until the very moment your body relaxes, collapsing into an exhausted heap, he kisses you gently, too pretty between your thighs for the sins he’s blazed along your skin.

And, God, you want to go again when he rasps, “You taste as good as I imagined,” fingers slipping from your aching cunt and offered to you to take between your own lips. You don’t even hesitate, opening your mouth for his fingers like you were born to do it, moaning around them as his nose presses into your jaw and his mouth blazes your skin, his hips grinding against the wet mess of your core, not caring for whatever stain you were certainly leaving along his pants.

“You look so pretty when you cum, princess,” Quentin huffs, pulling his fingers from your lips in favor of claiming them with his own. Gasping between your heated kisses, “Make me want to keep you to myself.” His gold chain grazes your chest, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You nod hastily, gripping the collar of his jacket and begging, not caring if you sounded desperate, “I need you, Quentin.”

“I’ve got you,” he hums against your lips, before leaning back to rip the jacket from his shoulders. He tosses it to the floor like it wasn’t expensive, even though you know better than that, but your fingers are too busy unbuckling his belt to care for the messy heap of clothes you’re making off the end of the couch. He’s not even out of his trousers when his dick slips, hot and heavy, into your hand, and you know enough to stroke him a bit, despite how careful you’re being. He chuckles, kissing you again, voice laced with arousal, “You can go harder than that, honey.”

Quentin reaches down, hand encompassing your own, and shows you what he means. Holds you a little tighter, strokes a little faster, and by the time you get it he’s pistoning his hips into your grip, breathing heavy above you, and you’ve never felt more proud than right now, reducing this man to such a state with just your hands.

When your thumb runs over the head of him, he groans low, “You ready, honey? ‘Cause I’m gonna’ fuck you until you can’t walk tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, letting him slip you a little closer by a grip on your thighs.

“You let me know, if you want me to stop,” he kisses at your chest, and you feel the length of him running through your folds, hitting your clit only to repeat the motion, until he was good and wet with your arousal.

You nod, shifting your hips to catch him at your core, and shocking a startled breath from his lips as the head of him sinks, just a little, into you, “Give it to me, Mister Beck.”

“Fuck, babygirl,” he groans, holding your hips and easing himself a litle further breathlessly, “you talk awful dirty, for a good girl like you.”

The feeling is like nothing you’ve ever felt before. He’s so _big_ , and you’re so _full_ , and he’s not even all the way in yet. You’re grasping at his arms, scraping your nails down his chest, grasping for anything to ground yourself as he pistons his hips and hits you a little deeper with each sway of his hips that sends him inch after inch into you. It’s excruciating, in the best way possible, and by the time he moves again, any pain is far overpowered by the pleasure the fullness brings.

He’s not faring much better, a mess in your arms and when he bottoms out, he bends over you, pressing you down with the weight of his chest against yours. You can barely breathe, but it only adds to the pleasure, as his hand finds your hair while the other arm wraps around you, bring you tight into his thrusts.

You can barely think anything other than, you hope this isn’t a one time thing. You’re in trouble now.

“Faster,” you murmur in his ear, and his moan vibrates from his chest to your own, as his hips pick up their pace. You can feel every bit of him, the curve of his dick, the rub of his pelvis against your clit when he bottoms out— it leaves you dizzy in the head, fucked up beyond all belief.

“Tell me,” he pulls back, to get a good look at you, wiping the hair from his eyes and begging in his own right, “how you like it, honey.”

“Just like this,” you mewl, mouth parted, panting, gasping, moaning his name. It’s the truth, and you can’t wait to see what else you manage to discover, with him buried deep inside you. “Just like you give it—”

“That’s right,” he groans, gasping as his hip smack lewdly against your own, “who does this tight, little, pussy belong to, baby?”

Your back arches, as he licks the pads of his index and middle fingers only to slip them between you to rub tight, focused circles on your clit, your voice breaking with the force of it, “You— You, Quentin—!”

“You gonna’ cum? Go on, cum all over me, princess,” he urges, hitting you deep and fast with far more of an overbearing intensity with the added stimulation of his fingers at your clit. You were no doubt getting there, on the verge of another orgasm, all thanks to him.

Your fingers run down his back, holding him close, as you beg softly, “Kiss— kiss me—”

“Gladly,” he growls, and comes crashing down upon you, wave after wave of pleasure accompanying his lips in an overwhelming peak that has you gasping your moans into his mouth as he drinks you in, hips hitting you over and over as deep as he can, and sending your body into overdrive as the bliss wipes your mind clean for a fantastic few moments, your walls spasming around him until his own pace falters. His sounds, though? They’re something you can’t get enough of, moaning just as filthy against your tongue as he hastily pulls out, spilling along the curve of your stomach and the dip of your navel.

“How’s that,” he breathes, labored, against your lips as you hold onto him in the aftermath of your orgasm, his hand at your throat turning the lull of your head to face him, “for freedom, _Rapunzel_?”

It was exhilarating, but you weren’t going to tell him that.

“Good enough,” you grin up at him, still with enough decency to look bashful as you ran a finger along your stomach, through the remnants of his own release, “to go again, Mister Beck.”

He chuckles, bending to kiss you again. Yeah, he was going to ruin you, Mister Stark’s sweet little girl, alright.

Neither of you can wait.


	2. Let Down Your Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come down from your tower, Rapunzel. See what waits for you.”  
> Things you’ve never thought about doing before, you wanted to do with him. The taste of rebellion is tempting, and you go to him like a moth to a flame. Maybe he’s just as much of a moth as you are, because he can’t seem to get any work done when you’re around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** NSFW; age gap, innocence/corruption kink, self-consciousness on the reader’s part; semi-public sex; spanking; Q.B. teaching you how to suck him off; thigh 👏 riding 👏; (brief, singular) instance of daddy-kink because I am absolute trash; & the cringe dirty talk continues on in this one  
>  **A/N:** Uhm??? This is porn with barely a plot??? I apologize for nothing.

##  **_Rapunzel_ ♛ _Part II (NSFW)_**

Photo sources: [1](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/189624551567/jakegyllenhaal-source-interview-for-elle-men) | [2](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/189624541142/tomgrennan-jake-gyllenhaal-for-luomo-vogue)

* * *

_“Good morning, Miss Stark.”_

_“It is eight A.M. and the weather is at a low of twenty-six degrees with a slight chance of snow this afternoon,”_ F.R.I.D.A.Y. announces, effectively ruining some of the best sleep you’ve ever had. A soft groan scratches its way from the back of your throat as you tug your hefty comforter further over your head, but she continues nonetheless, _“I recommend you wear a heavy coat when you leave to meet your father at Stark Industries at ten A.M. this morning.”_

_Ugh, that’s right._ You had promised you would go down to get a hands-on refresher on what developments at the company you missed since you’d last been away at college. You hated reading the memos that your father and Pepper— moreso Pepper— insisted you stay up to date on, especially before your break was up and you went back to M.I.T. in the spring.

“Thanks, F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” you groan, not sounding at all grateful as you pull down the comforter over your nose and peek from beneath it at your white vaulted ceiling. Was your voice hoarse? You clear it, and try again with a better result, “Did… Quentin find his way out alright last night?”

The simple thought of the night before was enough to heat you up in all kinds of ways. The space in your bed where he had eventually wound up beside you was long since col. On your insistence, he’d left before any of the Avengers— ahem, _Steve Rogers_ — could get up for their morning run at four in the morning. Not that either of you had been too worried about sleep, up until then anyway, but you had to admit, the kiss he blazed along your skin right before you watched him go left you wishing he could stay longer into the night.

You wondered what he looked like in the light of the early morning. How would his body feel, warm against yours to snuggle against in the morning sun? Had he even thought about you when he woke up this morning?

“Mister Beck is recorded as having departed from the Tower at three-eighteen this morning,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. interrupts your racing thoughts, relieving your bottom lip from your teeth’s abuse.

“Okay,” you sigh, reaching over to press along the holographic screen that was your bedside table, tapping in your administrative pass-code, “modify Quentin Beck’s departure time.”

“Administrator override accepted,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. announces, and you watch as the arrival and departure log appears on the holographic screen along the table, “Please enter appropriate departure time.” Doing this felt wrong, but you had to admit, fooling around with Quentin last night had been the wildest thing you’d ever done, and you definitely didn’t want your father finding out about it. This was a necessary evil, you decide.

“Eleven twenty-four, sounds about right,” you murmur to yourself, more than to F.R.I.D.A.Y., as you enter your time and make certain that there is no record of your override procedure in the system. It would look as if he had left right before the Christmas party ended, if anyone were to ever go looking into it, though you doubted that would ever happen to begin with. After all, the only ones who knew about your little rendezvous were the two of you, and you really doubted Quentin was going to announce in his next project update that, _in conclusion Mister Stark, I also took your daughter’s virginity at the Christmas party._

“Time stamp accepted,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. states, and you smile.

“Now that that’s done,” you hum, pushing up from the bed to swing your legs off of it, letting the covers fall to your waist as you stretch fully. You were still naked, smelling of sex, and in a real need of a shower before you made an appearance in front of any other human being. A yawn escapes you when you remember your phone. Strolling through to the living room, you note that your clothes are still strewn at the foot of the couch. Collecting them, you pause in your path at the coffee table, noticing something alongside the clutch you had abandoned there the night before.

“Huh,” you hum, taking the cool metal between your fingertips. It was a gold chain, the very same that you remembered dangling from Quentin’s throat the night as he pushed you into the leather of your couch. A smirk graces your lips, an exciting idea coming to mind as you take your phone from your bag and hurry to the bathroom.

With your clothes down the chute, you do your best to make yourself look even halfway presentable, but the hickies and love bites that littered your skin made you appear anything but. Your final touch, you clasp around your neck, your fingertips grazing the cool metal as you hold up the phone with a shaky hand to snap a strategic picture.

_God, this is a terrible idea, isn’t it?_ Apprehension halts your fingertips along the black mirror of your phone’s screen.

But a deep, even more powerful urge sends you forward, launches you into hitting _send_ on the dirty little picture that was more pornography than anything else. Your face was just out of frame, a focus at your chest as the sunlight filtered through the curtains of the large window to your bathroom. The gold of his chain glinted just above the swell of your breasts, hinting at your nudity despite the arm you held to keep them somewhat covered. Just enough anonymity to deny it was you to anyone than your intended recipient. Just enough modesty to drive him wild, you hoped.

You were nearly bouncing on the balls of your feet as you gnawed on your inner cheek, curiously and anxiety eating at every fiber of your being for his response to the coy message you sent along with it.

_Looks like you forgot something last night, Mister Beck._

It felt like forever that you waited for a response, standing in front of your mirror and worrying more and more with the longer your wait if you had made a horrible mistake by sending the photo. That maybe it was a one-time thing, and he had had his fill of you. Just as your eyes start to water and you abandon your phone near the sink in favor of starting up the shower to wash your shame away, you hear the harsh vibrations of it rattling on the marble counter, and the undeniable dinging that announced a new message.

It sounds pathetic to say you pounced on it, but that is exactly what you did. Two long strides and you were snatching the phone from the marble like your life depended on it, which, it may as well have with the nerves running through your system.

_Apparently I forgot to teach you manners last night, too, princess. Distracting me at work… being such a tease. Didn’t your daddy raise you better?_

You chuckle, tapping out your response quickly, fueled by the electrifying excitement of his attention that laced up your fingertips and settled hot between your legs. _If my manners aren’t up to your standards, Mister Beck, maybe you should give me a lesson in them after my meetings today at S.I._

You hadn’t known he had work today, and he hadn’t seemed too concerned about waking up early for it last night, but now you can’t stop wondering just what he was in the middle of right now. Had you interrupted him, drawn his attention from the team of scientists working alongside him? Was he able to concentrate still, or was he preoccupied with the picture you sent him?

You get your answer with the message he sends. _Don’t tempt me._ And then another quickly following. _Or do you want me to bend you over my knee like the bad little girl you’re trying to be?_

That sends a flush from your head to your toes, as the thought of him doing just that flutters through your mind for the first time. More horrifyingly, part of you entertained the idea. Part of you wanted to try it.

So, you take a breath, and send one last teasing message before retreating to the shower you were now needing more than ever before, but not before accompanying your message with another risqué photo, this time without your hands concealing his view.

_You’ll have to catch me first._

You knew it was going to get you in trouble, but you wanted exactly the kind of trouble he could bring you right about now. The shower is hotter than you can stand, unusually. Your only relief comes in the coolness a turn of the knob brings the water to, after how overheated his words had gotten you.

By the end of it, your racing heart has calmed only a little bit, arousal lingering in your veins, along with his messages that you ignore while you dress. Making him wait, you hoped, would only serve to rile him up more. Your torture was a two-way street.

Only after you pull on the fur Pepper and Tony had gifted you with at your last birthday, do you dare to glance at his messages. Four of them, each serving to widen your smirk with every one you read.

_Sounds like you do need to be taught a lesson. When are you coming to S.I.?_

_Ignoring me?_

_Oh, you are going to get it when I catch you._

_Come down from your tower, Rapunzel. See what waits for you._

Slipping your bag onto your shoulder, you chuckle, making your way onto the elevator. This was going to be fun.

_Meeting’s in thirty minutes. Catch me if you can, Mister Beck._

“Let the games begin,” you murmur softly, popping a strip of bubblegum into your mouth as the elevator doors close. “Take me to the floor, F.R.I.D.A.Y., and have my car brought around front. I have a meeting to get to.”

Obediently, the A.I. replies, _“Yes, Miss Stark.”_

Twenty-eight minutes pass before you’re passing through the glass double doors leading into Stark Industries. Thirty-four total before you’re stepping into Pepper’s office, finding your father leaning along her desk and undoubtedly distracting her from getting any actual work done, judging by the raise of her brow and the amused smile she wore.

They both turn towards you as you push through the double doors, bubblegum popping sharply in the vast office space and earning a beaming grin from Tony, “Good morning, kiddo. I’m glad you could make it! There’s a bunch of projects I can’t wait to get your opinion on—”

“Maybe we should give her a rundown of the new ones, first, Tony,” Pepper reels in his enthusiasm with a loving hand on his arm.

“Aw, Pep,” he pouts, “you know she hates the memos.”

“And that’s why I’ve condensed them all into the one file I’ve already had sent to your phone,” Pepper smiles proudly, and you collapse into the seat on the other side of her desk across from her, tugging your phone from your pocket to see. “It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes for you to read the gist of it, and any elaboration can easily be found on the more in-depth project notes in our secure server.”

“And this is why you’re the best and we all love you, Pepper,” you grin at her, scrolling through the info and grazing along the important bits. There were quite a few new projects, from the new nanotech prototype to elaborations on the old arc reactor tech. You had more catching up to do than this, you could tell, but it was enough to give you an idea of what the company had worked on in your absence. The rest you could figure out after Christmas and before you were due back to university.

Your hasty skimming slows as you reach the passage on the holographic systems project, and you try your best to remain somewhat composed as you spot _Quentin Beck_ listed beside _Project Director, Lead Engineer_. The summary, as condensed as it was, was still much more developed than you had expected in the time since your last update, but as you read the last part, you realize why it had advanced so quickly.

_Prototype to be presented at M.I.T. Alumni Honors Ceremony by Tony Stark in its capacity as a psychotherapy aid._

“Psychotherapy using the holographic system?” you raise a brow at your father, “That’s an interesting application.”

“Tony has taken a personal interest in the project,” Pepper begins, as he moves around the table to claim the other seat beside yours. Her smile tightens a bit when she adds, “Six hundred and twenty billion dollars worth of personal interest, actually.”

“It’s six-hundred and eleven, actually. It could revolutionize therapy entirely,” he defends with a hint of sass, but you see that same glint in his eye that he got whenever he became particularly enamored with a project. “Patients can address their trauma first-hand. Get a second-chance at fixing things, or get some closure, at least.”

You had no doubt his spin on the use of the holographic system was due to his own history in therapy, but most of his breakthroughs came from personal experience, so you don’t question it too much, other than to comment, “I’ll bet. It could help a lot of people, if it could ever be standardized, but from what I’ve read, this tech could have more applications than just that. It seems like it’s pretty advanced illusion tech.”

“It is,” Tony chuckles. “It’s practically Beck’s baby, you’d think, with how protective he is over the project, but I gotta’ admit, he’s getting results— even with the complaints.”

“Complaints?” you raise a brow, trying to not seem too suspiciously interested, but also wanting to know the details.

Pepper sighs, “Tony, we still need to discuss how to deal with some of those, actually…”

“The guy’s a little abrasive. A little anal about the project, but what engineer isn’t when it comes to their work?” Tony shrugs, but his frown is less nonchalant than his posture, as he glances towards you, “Most of them are HR complaints— behavioral stuff you don’t need to worry about right now, kiddo.”

“Half of the reason it’s taken so long to get the project off the ground is because he can’t get along with most of the scientists,” Pepper reminds. “Until Tony changed the direction to a more therapy-associated approach and personally assigned new members to the team, the project was dragging in every other aspect aside from the base software Beck has personally been working on.”

“Well, the project is on it’s way, now, at least, and the complaints are hardly the biggest worry around here these days,” Tony sighs, leaning back in the chair as he announces, “After Ultron? Which was a nightmare— not to mention, I’ve got to go on a mission this weekend. Natasha called this morning, something about a hydra base. I haven’t read the full report yet.”

“But, Dad,” you gasp, reaching for his sleeve with both disappointment and worry, “it’s almost Christmas. Don’t the Avengers get, I don’t know, an off-week every now and then, _especially_ for Christmas?”

“Ah, pumpkin,” he sighs, the quirk of his lips not quite reaching his eyes, “I know. Trust me, I would love to blow it off, but the intel’s always time sensitive. The location might change if we wait on it.”

Deep down, you knew he was right, but it still sucked. He couldn’t catch one single break. It felt like he was always either at work, in the lab fixing up a new suit, or on a mission with the Avengers these days. You glance to Pepper, noting the frown she expertly conceals behind the sip of her pellegrino, but it’s just as clearly there to you as anything else in this room. She clearly felt the same way, probably even moreso, considering you were at M.I.T. most of the time, and didn’t fully see how busy he was near constantly.

“Well, at least promise me you’ll be home for Christmas next week, okay? I don’t want to have to give Pepper her presents without you,” you crack a smile at him, trying to dawn a lighter mood than the gloom that had settled between you.

It works, and he reaches out to grasp your arm warmly, “You’ve got a deal, there, kiddo.”

“You better be home by Christmas,” Pepper shoots a playful look at Tony, “Now, what were all those projects you just couldn’t wait to get her to look at?”

Your father goes through each project one at a time, lingering on the holographic system Quentin designed before going on to tell you about a new nanotech suit that he was personally outfitting for Peter Parker. The kid was going to love it, of course, and you think Tony got more out of sharing his ideas with you than the opinions you provided in the long run. It was a learning experience, on both your parts, and Pepper had her own pointers that would keep the two of you from getting too carried away with your ideas.

By the time an hour rolls around, you’re walking the halls of the company alongside Tony, as he leads you from project team to project team, at least for the higher-budget projects at the top of his radar.

“Ah, can’t forget Beck’s project— He let me know this morning that he was ready for a demonstration, and I thought it was perfect timing, since you were coming by,” Tony pushes through some double doors into a room, you trailing along behind him. “You’ve met Beck before, right, kiddo?”

“Yeah, I’ve met him before,” you’re thankful your voice is steady as you step into the room, finding yourself somewhat frustrated that Quentin had so easily gotten you here. It was slick of him, having you personally delivered instead of needing to hunt you down.

Your heart jumps into your throat at the sight of him. He’s standing on the other side of the room, wearing a black turtleneck that fit him like sin itself, but the fact that he stood across from what appears to be a younger version of your father is what really takes you by surprise. It looks almost real enough to believe that there were two of him in the room before the illusion flickers, and Beck frowns as he brushes his fingertips along a computer screen that must be controlling it, because it disappears after he presses a few buttons.

“No, no— This is all wrong,” Quentin barks at what looks to be an appropriately jumpy assistant engineer, judging by the numerous coffee cups littering the guy’s desk. “Recalibrate it.”

“I just recalibrated it,” the man states, and Quentin’s stare turns ice cold. A look you hadn’t seen on him until now, and you start to understand why there had been complaints filed against him by his coworkers. He seemed overly irritated already.

“Did you account for the speed of light and the angle of the windows in the room? Because if you did it wouldn’t. Be. Flickering!” judging by the terrified expression on the assistant’s face, he had not, and Quentin’s steely glare only hardens until the man turns back to the computer with a stuttering apology.

“R-Recalibrating now, with consideration of those variables, sir.”

“Useless…” you catch, grumbled under Quentin’s breath with the closer you approach.

“Beck!” Tony calls, effectively collecting the attention of the room and the man in question, “Do you have time for that quick project update? I’m trying to make sure my daughter is aware of all the high priority programs we have in the works at the moment.”

Quentin looks from your father to you, and your heart nearly stops, his lips quirking upwards as he nods, “Of course, Mister Stark.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking to his side to catch the eye of a brunette woman in a lab coat, “Victoria, you can handle… _this_ for now, right?”

She jumps to his side, a smile on her beautiful face and an eagerness to please in her step, “I’ve got it handled, Q.” Her hand brushes along his forearm, where the sleeves of his turtleneck had been pushed to his elbows, and you do your best not to grit your teeth when she gives him a slight squeeze that was more than friendly.

“You’re the best,” he grins at her as she moves to hover over the assistant who was currently flustering over the recalibration of their system. He moves towards you, before gesturing to the open glass door of his own office, “Where would you like me to start?”

“Just the most recent developments. I’ve already given her a rundown of the switch to a more therapy-based approach,” Tony hums as he watches you settle into one of the chairs in front of the desk, while Quentin simply leans on it. His knees were barely five inches away from your crossed thighs, but you do your best to seem as imposing as possible as you tug your fur closer around your shoulders. You study him, but when his eyes catch yours he gives nothing away. If you didn’t know better yourself, you wouldn’t even think he had spent more than five minutes with you in the past, let alone pushed you down into your mattress the night before.

“That is, if it’s not too much of a bother for you, _Q_ ,” you add with just as much casual civility as his eyes held, a smile far too friendly for the sour mood you conceal gracing your lips. Bubblegum pink pops against your skin, drawing his eyes there as his polite disguise fractures and a smirk that was anything but polite sparks at his own. It lasts only for a second, but it’s more than long enough for you to spot it. The wolf among the sheep.

Quentin’s raised brow remains when his picture of politeness returns, “Oh, it’s no bother at all, Miss Stark. I’d love to give you a _lesson_ on my project.”

“Ah, actually, you’re going to have to give that demo without me, I’m afraid, Beck,” has your neck snapping with how quickly you turn it to face your father, wide-eyed that he would abandon this update when it’s been just about all he can talk about.

You question him just as quickly, “What? Why?”

“Duty calls,” Tony sighs, an annoyed sound grumbling at the back of his throat as he taps along the screen of his watch. He shoots you an apologetic glance. “Sorry, kiddo, but that mission I told you about? Seems the timetable just accelerated, and I’ve got to go, like, five minutes ago.”

“Be safe, okay, Daddy?” you know there wasn’t getting much more information that that out of your father— at least, not in front of Quentin— so instead you give Tony as much of a smile as you can muster, reaching out to draw him closer for your obligatory good-bye kiss.

“Always am, sweet pea,” Tony smirks, and you refrain from calling him a liar when he bends to kiss you gently on your forehead, a fond squeeze around your shoulder. “I’ll let you know when I’m on my way back. Try to save some eggnog for me.”

A genuine giggle escapes you at that as you roll your eyes at your old man, “Maybe it will be drinkable this year, since you won’t be spiking it within an inch of its life.”

“That hurts, you know, right here,” Tony places his hand on his chest dramatically, as he makes his way out the door. “Knife? Right in your dear old dad’s heart.”

“Love you, too,” you call, spotting the grin full of mirth that he leaves the two of you with on his way.

The glass door to Beck’s office closes behind your father, but you hardly feel any more concealed, even though the noise from beyond the room silences for some small privacy. Your gaze slips back to Beck, and you find his already trained on you.

You uncross your legs, resting your arms on your chair in a relaxed posture that was more façade than anything else, “My father says you’re on the edge of a breakthrough that will revolutionize psychotherapy using this program you’ve designed.”

Quentin’s smirk only widens, his hands grasping the edge of the desk he leans upon and effectively drawing your attention to the way he reaches up to rub at the scruff of the stubble that had left your thighs raw this morning. Your mind races, and you sit a little straighter as his teeth graze his bottom lip for a brief moment.

“It’s definitely a breakthrough, but— well, Stark’s put a new direction on the project, but I think we can do more with my program than just therapy in the long run,” he admits, but your attention is still on his fingers, and the way they reach to tap along what appears to be a control panel at the edge of his desk. “Allow me to show you. I really believe the potential, once it’s explored, could be limitless.”

A whir to your right draws your attention, and that’s when you spot the blackout blinds that descend from the ceiling, effectively converting the open-concept of his office’s large windows overlooking the outward workspace into a deep black wall of fabric. The lights dim, and with another tap of his fingers and a flicker of light, you’re sitting beside an image of yourself.

“Woah,” you breathe softly, watching as the projection moves, leaning with you as she observes you with just as much scrutiny as you observe her. “Is this a live feed?”.

“Yeah. It’s just a simple mirror image, but with the right programming, it can effectively imitate the likeness of any person I want it to, in any situation. The key is to have the correct settings, and whole scenarios can be demonstrated so realistically anyone could be fooled into thinking it’s reality. There’s a demo scene that is ready to be presented at M.I.T. next year, but the only thing is, I’m still trying to figure out how to fix our issue involving movement, for a broader application of the system afterwards.”

You raise a brow at him, and ask, “What kind of a movement issue?”

He sighs, hand moving to his right and catching in the subtle light you hadn’t noticed before, a hidden projector glinting in the corner of the room. The hologram shimmers in response, blue technical gradient glimmering beneath its surface and giving away the truth of the illusion.

“In an active scenario, the hologram breaks for an instant, before the A.I. compensates,” he frowns, and you can see the frustration of it in his eyes.

“Why not just make the delivery system as active as the user?” you offer up.

He crosses his arms, not seeming too convinced, but ready to listen to your idea, “What do you have in mind?”

“Who says the projector has to say stationary?” you stand, moving to the edge of the room, plucking the microprojector from the wall and shifting it as you moved around him, until he was no longer obstructing the path of its light, and the illusion stabilizes once again, “If you can make it move around the target’s path, and somehow get the other angles to compensate for the movement patterns, then the patient can be an active participant within the illusion without the problem of it breaking in front of them.”

Beck turns towards his desk, spreading out what appears to be a blueprint strewn there, “It’s so simple, but…” he huffs out a laugh, scribbling down along the equations he had already written there, “it might work. It would require a total rehaul of the pathway system, but it might fix the problem.”

Putting back the projector where it once was, you walk through the illusion, leaning to look around him at his work. His desk was messy, papers appearing to be in no particular order in their haphazard positions around his desk, but with his rummaging he seems to know where to find what he’s looking for. Anyone else, though? They would be hopeless in this mess of things.

“There was another project,” you murmur, more to yourself than Beck, as you scroll through the condensed file Pepper had gone over with you earlier in the day. “The drones,” you say a bit louder, and look up to find Beck watching you curiously, “something like that might work for this. I mean, the other project is in our weapons development department, but if you used something similar to make your projectors more portable, it might work better than with them staying stagnant.”

You lean over his blueprints, checking his equations and wracking your mind for any improvements you would make, but finding none with the quick glance you take, “Otherwise your math looks right. I think it’s more of a technical problem than anything else.”

“I’ll definitely take it into consideration,” he chuckles, shaking his head as he grins peculiarly at you.

“What?” you laugh back at the strange look, like he was trying to figure you out.

“Nothing,” he drawls, taking the prints from your hands to deposit them back on his desk, effectively removing the barrier they provided between you, “you’re just full of surprises.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Beck sighs around his smirk, brazenly reaching forward to hook his index finger and tug you closer by the gold chain at your neck, “I spend weeks prepping for the demo, having to neglect this flaw and rely on those idiots out there to figure it out, but in five minutes you offer up a better fix than any of them have even suggested in all this time.” You let your nails skim down the fabric of his sweater, along his sides, as he leans you against his desk, “You’re more than a pretty face, aren’t you, honey?”

“Don’t you know?” you breathe against his lips, trying your damned hardest not to drown in the dark blue of his irises that promised nothing but bad intentions, or the way his cologne consumed your senses. Your own sarcastic smirk bites at your tongue, “Flattery will get you everywhere, Mister Beck.”

He tugs at the chain on your throat, kissing his amusement down your jawline, hand slipping between the open front of your fur coat to rest a grip, heavy on the curve of your hip as he chuckles in your ear, “Will it get you on your knees?” His teeth graze at your neck, wolfish grin nipping at your skin, clearly amused by the audible gasp his words elicit from you, and, suddenly, you’re once again the uncertain girl from the night before. Unknowing of what to say or do with this man teasing you so openly like this, but Quentin takes control just as easily as you give it up to him, “Because I’ve got you, now, and you don’t think I’ve forgotten about this morning, do you?” Your skirt hitches up, and his hand blazes along your thigh easily enough, as Quentin clicks his tongue disapprovingly at you, abandoning your abused neck, “You’ve been quite the distraction. What should I do with such a naughty little girl like you, Rapunzel?”

You pop your gum, just to rile him up with waiting, and grin as you throw his own words back to him, “ _What do you have in mind?_ I’m sure you can come up with _something_.”

“Don’t be a brat,” he scolds, but the way his hand squeezes your thigh and his other winds into your hair is anything but punishment. Quentin sends you arching into his grasp with a simple tug and your own hands slipping for the curve of his shoulder, the skin of his throat, peeking just above the turtleneck when he leaves his taste at your lips, sweet like your bubblegum. Just like you remembered, “Or maybe you really do want me to bend you over my knee? Give you what you deserve.” He tugs at your hair, a little rougher this time, and you mewl as his lips blaze along your throat again, this time with a more intense edge than before, and you feel lightheaded when he hums condescendingly, “Hm? You want me to spank you like your daddy should’ve, with manners like yours? ‘Til you know better than to send pictures like that to men like me?”

“Don’t act like you didn’t like them,” you huff as your eyes flutter shut when he kisses along your clavicle, a shiver of pleasure running through you when he squeezes the flesh of your thigh.

“And now you talk back to me, princess?” Quentin all but growls, a sharp smack coming to your thigh and sending a jolt of electricity through you. It stung, but sent you swaying into him and gripping at his body tighter— you wanted him to do it again. He leans back, just enough to get a good look at you, and you nearly get whiplash with how sweet his hand is, when it slips from your hair to caress your jaw, far too kind for the words he breathes at your lips, “The problem isn’t that I didn’t like them— I liked them. Could hardly fucking think with how much I liked them— but, you wanna’ know what I think, now?” You nod, leaning into his touch, watching his grin widen cruelly, all teeth, “I think, you really do need a good spanking, for playing dirty like that.”

It’s all the excuse he needs to spin you until he’s pushing you down over his desk, along the papers there, crumpling them beneath the press of your breasts as his hand smooths, front and center, between your shoulder blades. His body leans over yours, trapping you with the press of his hips against your own and pinning you there with the weight of him, getting a squeak from you at how quickly he’s overpowered you. You struggle, just enough to put up a fight, but he’s hardly bothered by it.

Truth be told, neither are you.

“Quent—” you squeal, when he tugs your skirt up to your waist, unapologetically exposing the curve of your rear for him to see. A mixture of humiliation and arousal rushes through you, burning your cheeks as you squirm under his grip. “You aren’t serious—”

“Try to be a good girl, and keep quiet,” is his only warning, murmured low from behind you, before he leans back and his hand comes down hard on your ass. The smack of the skin is just about as loud as your sharp yelp, and the sting he leaves is just about enough to bring tears to your eyes. “Count them,” he orders.

“One,” you answer obediently, leaning back into the weight of his hand as he rubs the no-doubt mark he’d left along your skin. Just as soon as the pain soothes, he spanks you again, harder than before, and you bite your lip to keep quiet this time. Shutting your eyes, you remember your numbers, “Two.”

“Two, for distracting me twice at work with those pictures,” when he leans into you, you find yourself rocking back into him, and he shocks you by sending another harsh slap to your ass, but on the other cheek.

“Three,” you whisper, swallowing a moan as he kisses right behind your ear. You blink, breathing fast at the ache in your skin and the contrasting gentleness of his hand kneading away his abuse. The grind of his hips effectively scrambling your thoughts as he hovers over you. It’s a mixture of pain and pleasure that confuses you more than ever before, but all you know is that you don’t want him to stop.

“For ignoring my texts,” his hand slips between your thighs, pressing momentarily at the centre of your lace panties, as he taunts. “You’re this wet from just this? Here I thought you were supposed to be a good girl…” You whimper, pushing back into his fingers only for them to abandon you just as suddenly, before he spanks you once more, harder than ever, and you whine into your hand at the feeling.

It takes a second for you to remember to count, a shaky, “f-four,” eventually passing your lips.

“For the backtalk,” he pulls you up, kissing you hard on your lips, open and in a way that makes you feel dirty for doing it. The way he looks at you when he’s had his fill is all fire, a dragon biding time beneath his gaze that cared little for the gold adorning your neck— no, the treasure he’s after is you.

He runs a hand through his hair, and smooths down his sweater— ruffled, thanks to you. He moves around his desk with a sort of satisfaction as you watch him, collecting yourself as best you can until he settles into his chair, leaning back.

Gesturing for you to come closer, “Spit out that gum, and put your mouth to better use, won’t you, princess?”

You step closer until you stand between his knees, delicately plucking your gum from your mouth as it snaps on your pointer finger and falls to the paper-filled bin beside his desk, his fingers smoothing up your thighs to graze along your panties as he looks up at you, “Tell me what you like, Mister Beck.”

“Always so eager to please,” he mused, amusement dancing with the lust in his gaze as he tugs you closer by his fingers hooked into the waist of your panties. “You look so pretty, but I think you’d look prettier on your knees. Show me how sorry you are for being bad this morning.”

You bend, and his fingers snap the band of your panties as he releases them for you to settle on your knees before him, hands slipping along the stretch of his inner thighs. When you sit back on your heels, your ass stings with the soreness of his spanking, but you’re easily distracted by the sight of him, legs spread in front of you. His slacks fit him gorgeously, and only serve to make you want him more as he shifts his hips for your easy access.

Biting at your bottom lip, you pop the button on them, and lie, “Oh, I’m _really_ sorry, Mister Beck. I should make it up to you.”

His gaze burns down your skin as you tug his zipper down, “Then make it up to me, honey.”

You glance up, as you take the length of him into your hand, nervousness settling into your belly when you give him a few languid strokes, feeling him harden a little more with each, “Tell me how you like it…” Your gaze falls, and the sight of his arousal stokes your own. God, you wanted to make him feel good. It was probably silly to feel shy now, but your _want_ to do this simply wasn’t enough to bury your nerves as you admit softly to him, “I’m sorry, I’ve never…”

Quentin reaches out, taking your chin in his index and thumb to tilt your head up, and when you do all teasing is gone, his voice comforting, but there was no denying his own want, simmering beneath his soft tones, “Let me teach you.” He pulls you forward, and you waste no time moving with him, sitting straighter and meeting him halfway as his lips find your own. His kiss is all passionate need, burning away your hesitance with his own determination. A groan escapes him as your thumb slips along the head of him, before you return to his base and back up again. Your bottom lip is caught by his teeth as he pulls away, tongue tasting the remnants of you on his lips, as your hand squeezes his thigh and his own comes to your hair. “You already know more than you think. Just kiss me, honey.”

It’s terrifying and new, and everything you want right now. To make him come undone, to see the pleasure on his face and know you were the cause of his undoing? That itself is enough to have you craving for your own release.

Reddened lips kiss tentatively along his dick, up the length of him until you reach the tip. Tongue teasing his skin until you lick him from base to tip and back again, you give him a long stroke, slicked by your saliva, as you do what he says.

“I want to see you wrap those pretty lips around me,” he twitches in your grasp, humming appreciatively as he watches you do as you’re told, the hand in your hair guiding you to take him in your mouth, “Don’t be afraid to get messy, honey.” The encouragement at his tongue stokes the flame in your cheeks, drawing you to your knees as your tongue slips along the underside of his dick; one last tease before you take him slow. Deep as you can and then some with the aid of his hand at the back of your head. You gag, and he lets up, for you to bob in time with his grip at your hair, moving you to his pleasure.

Your nails dig into his thigh, as you try your best to breathe, swirling your tongue around him. He groans softly, as your hand moves to stroke what you couldn’t take. The wet slick of your spit along your hand smooths the way for your tongue as you pick up a rhythm that he instructs, hollowing your cheeks when you feel him twitch along your tongue.

“Just like that,” he whispers, but you hear the moan in his voice, and feel the quiver to his thigh. “Such a good job— you’re taking me so well.” The wet heat of your mouth seems to do a number on him, because his head lulls back and his hips fuck into your mouth when you scrape your nails up the length of his inner thigh, feeling him hit the back of your throat.

“Fuck— princess—” Quentin chokes, only for the sound of a knock at the glass of his door to jar you from the haze the scent and taste of him had put you under. You let out a muffled sound, as he pushes you back down onto his dick when you make to get off of him, eyes snapping to catch his gaze in a panic. _What the hell are you doing?_ He just licks his lips, and takes a calculated breath, “Did I tell you to stop?” He leans forward, and you’re concealed beneath his desk easily enough for him to hide you beneath him.

Releasing your head, you know logically that nothing is stopping you from pushing him away and leaving right now, but you sit tight between his knees, as he calls to the interruption, “Yes?”

You hear the door opening, and huff in annoyance as you recognize Victoria’s voice, “Sorry, Q, the system’s been recalibrated. Did the demonstration go well?”

“You can say that…” Quentin’s thigh clenches in your hand, as you pull off of him to kiss at his tip, stroking him torturously, “Is the scene still flickering, or did the recalibration fix it?”

“It’s good, now. Turner just didn’t do it right the first time,” she scoffs, and you hear the desk shift slightly as she leans on it. He scoots a little closer towards you. “Hey, if you don’t have plans this Saturday, some of the guys were talking about maybe getting together to celebrate the prototype’s completion…”

You take him deep without warning.

He clears his throat, nudging a warning against your thigh with his foot, but you smile around his dick instead, and swallow, “That’s… thank you for the invitation, but—”

“Oh, come on, Quentin! Let’s celebrate your achievement!” she whines, and you can practically hear the flirtation in her voice as she adds, “Besides, there has to be at least one intelligent person there or I’ll go mad.”

“There will be,” you hear the sound of papers ruffling— was he fidgeting with them? “You’ll be there, Vic.” You huff, quietly as you can, and pick up your pace as punishment, swirling your tongue around the tip of him just for good measure. There was a strain in his voice, and you know you’ll make him cum at this rate.

“Just think about it, for me?”

Quentin breathes out a chuckle that sounds more like breathlessness than laughter, “I’ll be out to check the program in a little bit. I’ve got to check some blueprints first. Stark, uh, had some last-minute improvements.”

“Ah, alright,” she moves from the desk, and you listen to her footsteps as she crosses the room towards the door, but lingers before leaving. “And try to think about this Saturday, okay?”

He hums an affirmative, and thankfully that’s enough to appease her. You don’t even hear the door close fully before he’s leaning back and tugging you off of him by a hand in your hair. He leaves you gasping for air as a string of your saliva trails after you, breaking to drip down your chin, leaving you sloppy.

“Are you trying to get caught?” he _is_ breathless, and you relish in the desperate look in his eyes and the sting of his grip. Despite his reprimand, his tone is anything but angry, as he kisses you roughly right after it. Moving from beneath the desk, you push him back to settle into his lap, straddling his thigh as his hands tug your panties to the side. The band digs into your hip, and you hear a ripping before the lace slacks against you.

“Ah, those were Versace—!”

Quentin growls, leaving a smack to your ass as his punishment and not caring in the least for your shredded lingerie, “I almost came down your throat in front of her. Did you want her to know I was fucking your mouth? Want it to be the talk of the company that little Miss Stark was on her knees for me in my office?”

“I wasn’t the one who decided to tuck me under the desk,” you quiver as his fingers roll directed patterns along your clit, sending you grinding down against his thigh in your need for more.

“That mouth is going to get you in trouble one of these days, honey,” he nips at your lips, one hand at your hip and the other buried between your folds. He flexes the muscle of his thigh, and even through the tight fabric of his pants you feel a surge of pleasure with the scratch of his stubble at your throat and his tongue on your skin, teasing in the best way, “But for now, I think I’ll be content to see you cum on my knee.”

When he bounces it, you can’t help your whimper, “I-I’ll get you messy—”

“Dark pants— no one will notice,” Quentin releases your hair to tug your hips down, sending you grinding further into the seat of his thigh and you find yourself having to hold onto it just to not lose yourself in the feeling. This shouldn’t get to you the way it does— who knew it would feel so good, to do something like this? Each roll of your hips, each bounce of his knee, they send you closer to your own end. Dizzy with arousal, it really was dangerous how he could cloud your judgement so effectively.

“ _Quentin_ ,” you whimper, leaning forward against his chest as you press your forehead into his shoulder. You could barely think, with the delicious drag of his thigh at your core, supplementing where he had abandoned your clit in favor of sending a smack to your ass in encouragement.

“You look so fucking pretty, honey, riding my thigh. Do you like it?” he talks— he always talks, you’d learned. But some of the dirtiest things that would typically serve to withdraw you, leave you a mess of a blush— they only spur you on in moments like these, with him.

And you have no problem telling him what he needs to hear.

“It feels so good,” your words wrap around a moan, but you have enough sense to slip your hands beneath his sweater, feeling him tense beneath you as your fingertips brush up the trail of hair leading along his abdomen. When you catch his eye, you hope he can see the heat you were feeling in them. Maybe he would see how desperately you needed him right now. His breathing is shaky, as you slip your hand back down to find the length of him again, stroking gently as you purr your request as sweetly as you can muster while keeping up your own torturous grind, “I need you to make me feel good—”

His voice is gruff, and he anchors you with a yelp when he leaves another scolding smack to your ass, “Where are your manners, princess?”

“ _Please_ , Mister Beck,” you are hardly above begging for what you want. You’ve done it for as long as you remember, and it always worked, especially with men like him. Bringing your lips to ghost at his own, you plead your case there, too, “I need you to fill me up— can’t think of anything else. Need you inside me. Please, _please_ —”

You’re silenced when he surges forward, his tongue in your mouth and his hands at your hips, forcing your grind to speed, your pace unbearable. It has you a whimpering mess against his lips, melting in his hands as he brings you to the mind-numbing edge of your rope. You can feel it, close to slipping from it, leaving you to fall and crash down upon him as he inhales your moans.

An astounding lightheadedness blurs your thoughts, as he breaks your kiss only to rasp against them, “I told you I would have you cum against my thigh first, and that’s what you’re going to do— what you’re told— like the good little girl you are. Then, I might give you something bigger.”

“Oh, _god_ ,” you gasp, choking on your own breath, as his grasp feels so tight at your hips that you wouldn’t be surprised at him leaving you littered with even more bruises and love-marks to remember him by than the night before. His thigh was soaked with your slick, and all you can think is how much more you want from him. Greedy and insatiable in a way you had never felt before.

Your moans get louder, the closer you get, and Quentin clamps a hard hand along your mouth, shutting you up and muffling your noises as you chase your release, desperate.

When you do finally crash, it’s in the midst of his coaxing, and the rough drag of your cunt along his leg, “Go on, let me watch you cum— you’re so pretty when you do.”

It’s white-hot and blinding, liquid heat rushing down your spine and over your body in glorious waves that only serve to leave you a mess in the palm of his hand and quivering against his thigh. When the static behind your eyelids fades enough for you to somewhat come to your senses and open them again, he’s grinning at you with all the satisfaction of a boy getting his way, and you’re just as determined to have your own.

“Good girl,” he breathes too softly for the violence of your orgasm, as you grind slow against him for the lull the draw of it tempts from you, tongue parting your lips to graze against the palm of his hand clasped around your mouth. He lets up, letting you kiss his fingers as the weight of your climax leaves you jelly in his hands, legs shaking as you weakly drag your desperation along his thigh.

You don’t know why you say it, but it slips out before you can think twice about it, just as his fingers slip from your mouth, _“Please, fuck me, Daddy.”_

It shocks you, just as much as it seems to shock him, but before you can stammer out an apology for the unsolicited pet-name, you spot the glint of something more in his gaze. He looks at you, with a spark of something dark, lecherous, and all you can think, is that he looks like he wants to eat you up. Devour and destroy you, all in one go.

You’ll gladly let him, if that means feeling more of _this_. If it will get you more of _him_.

“There’s your manners,” he sighs, tugging you closer by your skirt bunched around your waist, until you’re straddling his hips and he’s slicking the head of his dick through your soaked folds. “I’m feeling generous— I’ll give you what you want, since you’ve been so good for me. Putting on such a good show.” Quentin brushes the hair from your face, and you wonder just how much a mess he’s made of you in these past thirty minutes, but he doesn’t look at you as if you were something used. He looks at you like you were still brand new.

A roll of his hips has him slipping through your folds, hitting your clit as you find your seat on his dick, and you gasp in an effort to stop his teasing, “You liked it, even though I got you dirty?”

Pushing the fur from your shoulders, he lets your coat fall at his feet, “Honey, I’m going to get you dirtier.”

It’s not an empty promise, and you arch into him, murmuring another obedient, _“Thank you,”_ that sends him dragging you down onto him. Entering you much easier than the night before, but just as effectively taking your breath away with the stretch you feel deep inside. It stings, just a bit, regardless of your readiness and willingness for him, but settles just as you do when your clit kisses against the base of his cock.

“You are _very_ welcome,” Quentin groans, grin lopsided with the furrow of his brow as he loses himself for a moment in your clenching heat, “Miss Stark.”

Neither of you are going to last long, with the way his pulse races beneath your tongue as you lick up the length of his neck, and the verge of your next orgasm creeping up on you far faster than you’d expected, but you were going to make it count. He hits you deep, as you manage to use your shaky legs to guide your hips to raise and drop you onto him, over and over again until his own breathing was ragged and there was sweat adorning his brow.

Moans fall from him softly, but just as ravenous as the need to have him is inside you. The slap of his skin as he slams into you with every thrust is erotic enough as it is, but this is possibly the most quiet he’s been all morning, and that’s the truly erotic part of it. You were both a mess, as he buries himself into you again, his blunt nails digging into your hips as he directs your ride.

“ _Fuck_ , Rapunzel,” he groans, croaked, just like he’s worried that if he were too much louder, others would hear, “am I glad you came down from that tower of yours.”

You can barely nod your agreement, so near your end, which snaps in your belly just as his hips snap once more into your own, dick hitting you deep and sending you spiraling, clenching around him until he’s gasping out your name in his release within a moment after you’ve finished your own. Pulling out for his cum to drip down your thighs in the aftermath of whatever this was happening between you. Yeah, you’re glad you came down from your tower, but you don’t quite know what you’ve found waiting for you at the bottom.

The one thing you did know: Quentin Beck is anything but a prince charming.


	3. What Will Desire Make You Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: ”What’s wrong, Rapunzel? Don’t you want to live a little without your guard looking over your shoulder?”  
> You start to realize that maybe you’re more wrapped around Quentin’s finger than you thought. Maybe there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.
> 
> Warnings: NSFW; age gap, innocence/corruption kink, public sex, total voyeurism; literally like one spank; more soft than the other chapters have been; oral (Q.B. fucks your face); the reader being worried about getting caught

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: THIS IS PURE MONEY FANTASY OKAY. For reference, his total purchase would be like $8.4k with tax. I did my research lmao 😂😂😂 No, I did not proofread this! I’m sorry!!

##  **_Rapunzel_ ♛ _Part III_**

Photo sources: [1](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/190197982102/elliotaldcrsons-x) | [2](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/189607406052) | [3](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/189917057977/jakegyllenhaal-source)

* * *

It became clear over the next week and a half that he had no intention of letting you go so easily, not that you were so keen on escaping him anyway. It was fun, exciting, to steal away for any moment you could just to sneak around with him. There was a taboo feeling to it, between the fact that you had a feeling your father would object to more than one aspect of your relationship, and how he made you feel. The things he was able to make you want almost scared you with the intensity of it— of him.

There was just something about Quentin Beck, and you were admittedly tripping, falling head over heels, dizzy for him.

You were a smart girl, but with every touch and every kiss, you lost all sense of yourself. When he called, you came, and when you came, he made it more than worth your time. You had a feeling he was just as wrapped up in you as you were with him, but that may have just been wishful thinking.

Which is why, standing in line at the Chanel counter in the effort of nearly finishing up some of your last-minute Christmas shopping, you answer on the first ring, “Hello?” You try to keep a straight face, as Happy shoots a glance from beside you, only the most minimal of curiosity in his eyes.

 _“What are you wearing?”_ the low tones of Beck’s accompanying chuckle sends you biting your lip to hide the intensity of your smile, shifting your bag on your arm as you angle your face away from the bodyguard at your side, pretending to take a keen interest in the various earrings that lined the table nearby your line. Quentin knew better than to tease you like this, but you have quickly come to learn that he simply didn’t care if he flustered you or not, _“I’m kidding, honey. Tell me what you’re up to tonight. We should do something.”_

“Well, I’m Christmas shopping at the mall with _Happy_ , so I’m a little busy right now, _Wanda_ ,” you drawl pointedly, and hear the resulting sigh on the other end of the line.

 _“I have a little shopping I need to do, too,”_ Quentin admits innocently enough, but there’s no hiding the mischief in his voice as he urges, _“Listen, lose the suit and meet me at Versace in thirty minutes.”_

 _“What? I don’t know…”_ you raise a brow, and Happy nudges you to bring you back to the dwindling line. You take a step forward with a nod, but your attention is on the tempting voice in your ear.

 _“What’s wrong, Rapunzel?”_ he hums, mocking, but just as cocky that he’ll get his way as always, _“Don’t you want to live a little without your guard looking over your shoulder?”_ Chewing your cheek, you contemplate his proposal, up until your pause has him confessing, “I want to see you.”

You have no doubt he wants more than that, but what kind of trouble can he possibly get you into in the middle of a public mall?

There’s a suspicious lilt in his tone when he urges, _“Don’t you want to see me, too?”_

Taking a long sigh, you give in, “Fine, I’ll see you later.”

_“Great! See you in thirty.”_

“Was that Wanda?” Happy asks as you tuck the cell back into your pocket, and for the first time in a long time, you lie to the man.

“Yeah,” it’s come easy, now, rolling off your tongue just as believable as the truth, while you hand your black card to the cashier to pay for your purchases upon your turn coming in line.

“Have those sent to the car, please,” Happy instructs her, regarding the larger bulk of the purchase, but his attention comes back to you just as quickly as she can utter her cheery agreement. “I thought Wanda was on some kinda’ top-secret mission this week.”

“Just had a chance to check in, I guess,” you shrug, smiling politely to the cashier as you sign the receipt and tuck your card back into your bag before taking the petite Chanel shopping bag containing some of your smaller items. Happy goes to take it from you, but you stop him, “Actually, Happy, why don’t you head on to the car, I just have one more store to look at, and then I’ll be right behind you.”

“What?” he huffs, shaking his head, as he keeps up alongside you as you make your way to exit the store, “No, Tony wants me watching you, with all the stuff going on right now.”

You groan, “Happy,” it’s so believable, with the way you roll your eyes, an ease to your shoulders as you tap the metal bracelet on your wrist, “I’ve got a suit on-call, remember? And I really doubt someone is going to jump me in the middle of the mall.”

“They could,” he looks entirely uncomfortable, which is good enough for you, because after a moment of your best pleading look, he caves, “Alright, but I’m going to come looking for you if I even _suspect_ anything’s off!”

You pat his shoulder, “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“I’ll be waiting at the front door, not the car,” Happy announces, looking around the mall for a second like he’s scanning the perimeter. It brings a soft smile to your face; the man really did take his job seriously.

“Alright, Happy,” you nod.

“The front door,” he repeats, and you nod your understanding once more before he’s apparently satisfied. You linger outside Chanel, up until he turns the corner, and you walk the opposite way towards Versace, boots clicking on the cold tile of the immaculate floor.

It was on the other end of the mall, and your stomach is twisting with butterflies by the time you reach it, trying your best not to be too obvious in looking when you enter the store. It was a little early, so instead you let your attention get distracted by the dresses lining the far wall. With Christmas so near, and still without a dress for your father’s upcoming New Years party, you let your fingertips run along the soft fabric of a nearby floor-length dress, sparkling and gold, with a plummeting neckline and a slit reaching up to the mid-thigh. Something you wished you could wear without your father making an issue about it.

“You should get it,” jolts you from your thoughts of the dress, and you barely have the time to turn and get a good look at him before his hand has caught the curve of your jaw, tugging you so his lips can taste your own. It’s brief, more due to your own attention to the people around you, when you pull away after just a moment, heat in your skin and embarrassment on your features. Quentin has the audacity to look amused, smirking down at your flustered state, but he instead acknowledges the dress, “It would look good on you. You should try it on.”

“I don’t think my dad would like me wearing something like that,” you sigh, giving one last wistful look at it, but Quentin just reaches for it, flicking through the sizes until he comes to yours, and tugs it from the wall.

He scoffs, “Who cares what he thinks? You’re old enough to pick what you wear.”

“Quentin,” you scold lightly, “you should put it back.”

“What’s the harm in trying it on, honey?” he counters, raising a brow as he drapes it over his forearm. He nods towards the dressing room across the store, “I’ve got a couple things you should try on.”

You raise a brow at him, a bubbling suspicion settling into your stomach at the twinkle in his eye, “What kinds of things?”

“Don’t tell me you forgot?” he grins.

“Forgot? Forgot _what_?”

“Come on, honey,” Beck chuckles.

Still watching him skeptically, you let him take your hand with his own and tug you towards the fitting room, murmuring low so only he would hear when you reach the drawn curtain of a stall, but your insistence becomes more urgent and, admittedly, a little whiny as you question him again, “Forgot _what_ , Quen?”

He slips the dress into your hands, abandoning it in favor of occupying your hands while his own wraps around your waist, leading you further into the dressing room with a chastising click of his tongue, “So impatient. You’ve gotta’ learn some patience, honey.”

“Quentin,” you scold again, but he just laughs, leaning close with a wicked smile.

“I still owe you a pair of panties from that time in my office, remember?” he lingers, just long enough to watch your eyes widen as his own smile grows, teeth on his lower lip to bite back another laugh at how scandalized you appear to be. He winks, “Try on a few, won’t you, honey?”

You hardly have a chance to react any further than that before he’s pulling the curtain closed between you, leaving you facing the golden overtones on the black fabric. Taking a breath, you finally dare to look at what he’s set out for you, hooking the dress onto the provided bar along the wall. There was an ottoman, next to which you drop your Birkin and the bag of your purchases from Chanel, before fingering through the underwear options he’s picked out.

The man had taste, you had to give him that much. Historically, you’ve come to learn that he liked you in solids, but there were a few more fun pieces in here, more akin to something you would have naturally reached for. You study the sets, before hitting the one at the bottom.

Black lace, undoubtedly entirely for his benefit, with matching thigh-highs and a cinched thong, the entire set bolstering a bold greca border as an accent.

His voice reaches your ears through the curtain, “Pick whatever you want, I’ll cover it.”

Tugging your clothes off, you decide to tease him a bit, “Sure you can afford it?”

You can hear the mirth in his tone when he adds, “Your daddy pays well, honey, so, technically _he’s_ affording it. You can thank him later, if you want.”

You roll your eyes. Really, you think some part of sneaking around with you got him off, just because he was doing something right under Tony Stark’s nose. Quentin liked to think he knew things that everyone else didn’t, and the fact that he actually _did_ when it came to you sent a wave of satisfaction through him. You’d caught onto that much.

Rolling the socks up your thighs, you move towards the dress, slipping it up your body and tugging the curtain open to get a good look at his blue eyes, “Thanking you is good enough for me.” Nodding for him to come in, you ask, “Come and zip me up?”

“Told you,” he hums as his fingers brush your skin, zipper slipping to the small of your back as the straps cinch around your waist with the righting of the dress. “It suits you.”

Your head tilts, scrutinizing yourself in the mirror as your hands slip over the dress. Your nipples perk through, noticeable with the minimal support the bralette offered, but that would be fixed easily with a more suitable bra to the cut of this dress. It was beautiful, you had to admit, but the neckline dips to just above your navel, and you flush at the idea of going anywhere public like this.

“You really think so?” your voice sounds small as a frown sets on your face, finding his gaze in the mirror as his fingertips catch the curve of your hip. Your own brush down the neckline, “You don’t think it’s too… revealing?”

“Honey,” he breathes, giving your hip a little squeeze as you turn to get a look at the side of it, catching the flash of your leg that it exposes through the slit, “you have no reason to hide. It looks beautiful on you.”

You nod, still uncertain, but feeling a little better about it as you urge, “Unzip it?”

“Are you going to get it?” he asks, reaching to catch the zipper and slip it down your back.

“I’ve got to think about it.”

“You’re getting it,” he says, matter-of-fact, like there’s no room for argument, but his eyes are soft when you catch them in the mirror, “Worst comes to worst, you only wear it for me.”

It’s sweet, you manage to think in the moment, before you finally nod, giving in, “Okay.” Your hands hold up the dress as it slacks against your skin, and before you can get too wrapped up in the hammering of your chest, you tell him, “but I think you’re going to rather me wear _this_ for you.”

He raises a brow as you let the dress fall, catching the way his eyes slip down your form in the mirror. It’s an ego boost, the way his lips part for the moment he takes to see you in the black lace of the set you’ve chosen to wear.

Turning, you cross your arms, smirking at the way he tears his gaze away from your breasts, “And here I thought this was about me?”

Quentin allows you a sheepish look, but the smile remains as he reaches forward to brush his hand along your hip, hooking a finger in the strap of the thong there, and confessing, “No reason we both can’t get something out of this.”

“That’s something a businessman would say,” you huff, adding just enough attitude to rile him up. “If I wanted to make a business deal, I’d call my father.”

The strap snaps against your hip when his hand slips from beneath it, and just as quickly, the sound of his hand smacking against your exposed cheek has you surging into his chest at the force of it, a gasp escaping your lips. Quentin’s other hand catches you by the neck, winding into the hair at the nape as you bite back your moan.

“You’re such an ungrateful little spoiled brat,” but he’s so calm, voice so low in your ear, that the only evidence of his amusement is left in the smile settled on his lips and the growing bulge against your abdomen. His palm smooths over the burning skin of your ass, and you arch into him, “You say I’m talking like a businessman. How would you like me to speak to you?”

Your mouth is dry as his thumb runs against your temple, gentle, like the calm before the storm that’s in his eyes, and you know your sly answer is enough to break him, “How about like you own me?”

He swallows, breathing, “Is that what you want? You want me to own you?”

“As long as it’s only me,” it’s as close to a confession as you’ll let yourself get, shielding you for the chance that you were only a booty call, and that’s where this would end.

He doesn’t take long pondering it, instead dipping to slate his lips against your own, his hips pressing you against the wall. Claiming every crevice of your tongue with his own, muddling your head with his lips on yours, and you hate that you’re so desperate for it. When his hand slips along the curve of your hip to dip between your legs, tugging aside the lace of the thong, you have the sense to pull from his lips worriedly.

“Quentin, we’re in— in public!”

“You’ll be quiet, won’t you?” his lips catch at your chin, as your hands try to push at his own with only but a weak protest, because the pads of his fingertips have found your core, and are slipping through your wetness to press at your clit so deliciously that you don’t _really_ want him to stop.

“The— the clothes,” you stammer, “we have to pay for them.”

“Don’t worry, honey, I will,” he smirks, dragging his fingers through your folds as your eyes dart towards the curtain for fear that someone’s already heard you. You had been the only two in the dressing room when he’d led you there, but you doubted the workers would leave you for too long without checking in, and there was always the threat of another shopper coming in.

You’re only drawn from the worry by his hand on your thigh, curling it over his hip as he slips a long finger within you, and you whimper softly at the feeling of it, “I think you’re a little confused.” His eyes are dark with lust, but there’s a tenderness in his confusing tone, and you don’t know how much of it is real between the lines in the sand of this act you’ve cut for yourself when he breathes, “You’ve been mine, since the first time I saw you, Rapunzel.”

When he adds a second finger, you pretend that’s the reason for the soft moan that slips past your lips, before it’s muffled by his own. It goes quickly after that, your hands tugging at his belt buckle and the zipper of his jeans, as his hand grinds on your clit and his fingers curl within you. Kissing you dirty, tongue and teeth against the dressing room wall, you don’t care if he’s lying in that moment, because you can’t think straight with him between your thighs anyway.

He already has you at a disadvantage.

His dick is heavy in your hand, hard and straining when you rid him of the barrier between you, and the groans you’re able to get from him are strangled by the knowledge that your privacy is thinly veiled by a curtain. At some point, you’re certain another shopper has closed a curtain, judging by the distinct sound of metal scraping against a rod, subduing you further into a mess of heavy breaths and quickened heartbeats. Your only solace is the up-beat pop that softly plays through the store’s speakers, and his mouth against your own, when you feel the build of your orgasm and his fingers quicken within you.

Quentin breaks against your lips, whispering through the feeling of your walls clenching around his fingers and the shakiness in your legs, “Do you think you can stay silent?”

His fingers still, allowing you the chance to catch your breath to answer him, but you bite back your frustrated sigh at how close you were, “Honestly?” You catch his eye, uncertainty in your own, struggling, “I don’t know, but _please_ don’t stop.”

He chuckles, slipping his fingers from within you only to slick his length with your wetness, “Oh, I’m not through with you, honey.” Quentin gets your legs wrapped around him easily enough, but between using the wall to leverage your weight and abandoning his grip on one of your thighs in favor of clasping his palm around your mouth, you slip down just a little. Enough that, when his first thrust splits you open, he hikes you up the wall and hits you deeper than you’d expected.

You’re grateful for his hand over your mouth, because your yelp would have been much louder than the muffled sound kept between you. He gives you a look, chastising, but twisted with his own pleasure as you tug with your calves for him to come deeper into you.

Your fingertips grasp at the fabric along his shoulders, until you’re using your upper arms as leverage to keep your body slated with his own, fixed to him as closely as two people could be. Chest squished in the bralette against his sweater-clad chest, his gold chain cold at your skin as you try your hardest to breathe, but the next thrust of his hips combined with the smothering feeling of his hand has you breathless.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he murmurs as he curls his hips into yours, and your walls flutter around him. The question was, could _he_ keep quiet?

Quentin sets a slower pace than usual, probably due to his own concerns of getting caught, and the fact that if he went much faster than this, the wall of the stall you were propped on was going to start shaking under your combined weight. Still, it’s enough to leave you writhing against him, doing your best to keep yourself from whimpering under the gaze he affixes you with. You can’t look away from the furrow of his brow, and the pleasure as it flashes along his face in time with the drag of his dick within your needy walls.

Clenching around him sends him thrusting up into you sharply, and your eyes shut with the electricity it sends surging up your spine. Arousing heat building in your stomach, as your fingers catch his hair. When your eyes open, you know he can see the desperation in them. You know he can see how close you are, as your lips part to taste the palm of his hand. His breathing is shaky, a sigh passing his lips at the feeling as he rocks into you, over and over again, until you hear the sound of the other customer scraping open their curtain once again, footsteps disappearing down the hallway from which you came.

His hand relaxes against your mouth, slipping down to catch your throat just long enough for him to place a sloppy kiss to your lips, “You’re belong to me, princess, and every time you wear these, you’ll remember it, isn’t that right?”

“Y-Yes, Quen—” your voice is soft, as controlled as you can keep it with him hitting you so deep, holding you so close— saying just what you want to hear. You don’t get to go much further than that, because his fingers find your mouth as he thrusts into you a little harder, not quite caring if the wall shook anymore. Your tongue swirls around the digit of his index, keeping your mouth occupied and quiet as you feel your orgasm building. He tugs your leg up higher, catching it in the crook of his arm, and his dick drags along a part of you that has you keening against him, twisting your stomach with the abuse of it, relentless.

He takes you apart, kissing the side of your throat as you cum hard around him, shaking in his grasp as your toes curl with the pleasure of it all. Strangling on his fingers, your moans are cut off in your throat, kept silent by the man against you. He’s still hard when you come down, and you’re pushing at his fingers in your mouth as he chases his orgasm within you.

He let you, until you’re gasping against him, practically begging in your hoarse whisper, “C-Cum in my mouth?”

Quentin groans, louder than he probably meant to, before he slips out of you and sets you down, “Make it good, honey.”

Dropping to your knees, you know he’s so close already, and you don’t bother teasing as you kiss the head of him. You can taste yourself, mixed with him, and it has you moaning as you gag yourself on his dick, taking him by surprise and sending his hands to your hair with a shudder that wrecks down his spine. His hips jolt forward, as his fingers intertwine in your hair, and you do your best to breathe through your nose as he fucks into your mouth. Gripping the backs of his thighs, your nose is burning, tears welling in your eyes from the reaction of your gag reflex, but you fight through it for him.

Quentin has a good grip at your hair, and his teeth have sunk into his bottom lip, drool slipping down your chin as you try to be as quiet as two people can be in your secret behind the curtain. His thrusts are sloppy, as your tongue rubs along the underside of him, and when you hollow your cheeks he thrusts deep enough to have you instinctively pulling back, but the grip in your hair keeps you to him, until he’s emptying against your tongue. Tugging you off of him to gasp for air as spurts of it hit your lips, falling down your chin, just barely missing the lace adorning the swell of your chest as his own heaves above you, just as labored and breathless as you were.

Your tongue darts out, tasting the saltiness that lingered there. His hand abandons your hair to swipe along the cum at your chin, catching it and bringing it back up to your lips for you to take into your mouth.

His eyes are dark and lidded in the haze of his lust, as he coos down to you, “You look so pretty like that, honey.”

“Is everything working out in there for you?” chimes beyond the curtain, and you feel your whole body stiffen at the worker’s voice.

Your voice is a little hoarse when his thumb leaves your mouth in favor of tucking himself back into his jeans, your hands wiping the tears from your eyes, “Uh, yeah— I’m good, thanks!”

“Yeah, we’re definitely getting these,” Quentin smirks, helping you to your feet and tugging you towards him by the strap of the panties.

When his lips catch yours, you hear the worker’s retreating call of, “Great! Let me know if you need anything else!”

A smile at your lips, you hum against Quentin as his arms settle against your waist, “I’m getting the pink set, too.”

“Whatever you want, princess.”


	4. Even Though You Don't Love Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ”Rapunzel, don’t tell me you’re really that naïve.”  
> As Christmas passes, you learn that you don’t know as much as you thought about the man whose bed you’ve shared. Hopelessly lost in your own feelings for him, you don’t know which part of your situation is worse, the fact that you are left so unsure of his feelings for you, or the fact that you enter your father’s New Year’s party on the arm of another man, just to spite him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: NSFW; age gap, innocence/corruption kink, Q.B. being possessive; jealousy; idiots in love; time skips; mentions of alcohol/drinking; semi-public sex/voyeurism; sex toys are mentioned; choking; makeshift gag (bondage?); oral; and, the kinkiest shit of all, emotions! ANGST Y’ALL (I haven’t proofread this --- be warned!)
> 
> A/N: This bitch done caught feelings, y’all! Big mood for this fic is Boyfriend by Ariana Grande/Social House.

**_Rapunzel_ ** **♛** _**Part IV (NSFW)** _

Photo sources: [1](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/190130645257) | [2](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/189917371042/dailygyllenhaals-jake-gyllenhaal-photographed) | [3](https://yourjamesbuckybarnes.tumblr.com/post/614888256884113408/ars-aesthetica-happy-new-year-everybody-keep) | [4](https://yourjamesbuckybarnes.tumblr.com/post/614888110541701120/like-or-reblog-if-you-save-sweetheart-x) | [5](https://yourjamesbuckybarnes.tumblr.com/post/190543409071/i-love-you-aint-that-the-worst-thing-you-ever) | [6](https://yourjamesbuckybarnes.tumblr.com/post/612267838554750976)

* * *

The modern fireplace in the center of the room was where you chose to linger. A warm glow casting on your skin, heating you where you had bared yourself in this dress. It had seemed such a good idea at first, if only to spite him silently from across the room, but once you shed your coat to the attendant upon stepping from the elevator, the full awareness of your exposed skin hit you.

The dress was beautiful, of course. The very same he had purchased from Versace nearly a week and a half ago, right before Christmas and resounding the rift between you. Dipping low on your chest, baring most of your back, save for the zipper, the warm hand at the curve of your spine sent a shiver where it brushed the bare skin there, doing nothing to help your growing embarrassment.

The worst part about it, was the man who offers a polite, “You look beautiful tonight,” wasn’t _him_. No, the one man you cared a thing for in this room was on the other side of it, catching your eye from atop the steps as you leaned into Danny Rand’s touch for show, if only to burn him from where his own _date_ lingered near his side.

“Thank you, Danny. You’re very sweet,” and you can’t even rip your eyes from the immensely _not sweet_ gaze of Quentin near the bar, as Victoria talked into his ear over the music. You watch as his jaw clenches, cut sharp along the buttoned perfection of the collar of his evening tux, tie bowed around the throat you were certain _your_ love bites still lingered at the base of, if the marks he had left on your own skin were anything to go by. Yellow and fading, but still there between your thighs, along the dip of your chest, and in the right light, you’re sure someone perceptive could notice them. Would improperly assume your date had left you in such a state, if they leapt to enough conclusions. You would be on the cover of another tabloid because of it, but you didn’t even care anymore, not after the way you had left things with Quentin. Let them assume. You wanted to hurt him, as much as you hurt.

_God, what were you even thinking, wearing this dress?_

_Too late to turn back now._

Interrupted from your thoughts, Danny offers you a glass of champagne, as he comes back beside you, “You’ve got to tell me.”

“Hm?” you ask, ripping your gaze from the flames to instead focus on the blonde at your side. _Fuck_ , he was _looking_ at you. Really looking, in the way that someone who knew something was wrong would look, right before they began to pry.

Danny was a good guy, and you were unfair to use him like this, but you’d pray for forgiveness later, if only you could earn some form of revenge against your lover, “You’ve been out of it all night. I always knew you weren’t a fan of these parties, but you usually try to put on a good face, at least for your dad.” Intuitive, with his time away, and far more genuine than any of the other pretty-boy CEO heirs you could have dragged to this party to simply be your arm candy, Danny was seeing right through you, as usual. At least you could trust him to keep his hands to himself, though.

You know he won’t let up if you don’t give him some of the truth, so you sigh, preparing to give him just enough to sate him, “Just, my last relationship didn’t end too well. I’m sorry if I seem a little preoccupied, it’s probably because of that.”

“I get it… Things like that take time to heal.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, looking back to the flames, if only to keep your eyes from darting towards the brunette at the root of all your troubles. You hated to admit it, even to yourself, but part of you didn’t want to heal--- didn’t want to _have_ to.

Christmas had been a blur, between your worry for your father’s sudden M.I.A. status on his mission, and the radio silence from the block-out you were getting from Nick Fury and the other Avengers. Then, in the middle of it all, was the growing _thing_ you had with Quentin Beck. You had thought, after the day at Versace, that he would open up to you--- that perhaps you would become something more than just a booty call and a dirty secret, but you were a damn coward. Too frightened to come right out and tell him that you wanted more than the unlabeled possession of each other’s that you seemed to be, yet, at the same time, too terrified of the implications that came with tying yourself to someone that way. With labels and red tape, announcing to the world your status, and, even scarier than that, your _father_.

You were a train wreck of a human, truly.

But all of that seemed to fade when Tony made it back just in time for Christmas morning, as he promised, details of the mission held close to the vest, and, for a moment, all felt right in the world, as you talked shop over presents and spiked eggnog. Pepper lounging on the couch in those fluffy socks you’d bought as a stocking-stuffer.

And the holidays were shaping up to be perfect, up until the twenty-seventh came, and you found yourself lounging along the king of Quentin’s urban modern platform bed. Silk covering your shoulders and the warmth of his bare chest against your own, the methodical slowness of his breathing lulling you into your soft drag of the Stefan-Boltzmann law along his skin with your fingertips, you’re completely content.

Up until you’re jolted from his side as he dips to reach off the end of the bed, retrieving a small wrapped box from beneath it with a cheeky grin, presenting it to you in apology for your pout, “Don’t look so upset, honey, I was just getting your Christmas present.”

And the way you beam at him, he would swear makes his heart skip a beat, but the only evidence of it is how his smile falters for only an instant, right before your fingertips take the careful wrapping between them when you whisper, “A present?”

“You look shocked,” Quentin chuckles, smoothing his hand down your arm, urging softly, “Open it.”

Pursing your lips, you raise a brow, “I thought you already got me Versace.”

Making a show of it, he sighs, reaching for the box, “Well, if you want me to take it back---”

“No!” you yelp, tugging it into your chest, only to flush furiously when you realize he’s teasing you, “Don’t be mean, Quen!”

“Mean? I got you a gift!” he scoffs through his laughter, and you settle back into his chest, box propped delicately on the swell of it, while you pick at the bow. His hands smooth down your sides, squeezing the flesh of your hips as he growls playfully, “ _Little girl,_ if you don’t open that _right_ now, I’m gonna’ open it for you---”

“Fine, fine,” you huff, propping on your elbows to lean over it, a ghost of a kiss at the curve of your lips, “so impatient.” He doesn’t entertain your teasing long, reaching to pull you into his kiss by the back of your neck, as you’re careful not to crush the present pressed precariously between you. He takes your breath, even now, and you feel the stir of warmth settling in your stomach once more, even though your last roll with him has hardly been an hour ago. His hand lingers on the shirt covering your ribs, as it pushes dangerously up the side of your body, taking the fabric with it, until he leans his head back and breaks the kiss.

“Unwrap it,” he breathes, dark blue eyes daring you to defy him, “before I’m tempted to unwrap _you_ , princess.”

“That’s not very threatening, you know,” you tempt, before finally conceding as you slip down to your settled position along his skin, looking up through your eyelashes to catch the scrutiny of his gaze with a sincere smile hinting at your lips. “Thank you, Quentin.”

You tug at the ribbon, unfolding it from the present delicately until your fingers slip along the cut of the wrapping paper, beneath the tape and unfolding it with care. You’re certain a store wrapped it for him, but you didn’t want to rip such pretty packaging either way. It’s a discreet box, black and when you open it, you shoot him an amused raise of the brow.

“Panties? Didn’t you already---”

“Keep looking,” his grin was dangerous, and you know you’re in for it already as your eyes glance back down to the box. Pushing the black lingerie to the side, you gasp a bit as you find another box, Tiffany blue and rectangular, alongside a petite black remote.

“Quentin Beck, you did _not_ just buy me vibrating panties,” you scold, deep flush heating your cheeks at the implication of it, until you pop open the Tiffany box and gasp again for entirely different reasons, “and… this is so pretty. Oh, you didn’t have to---”

“I did,” he murmurs, picking the diamond tennis anklet from the box to offer it into your waiting palm, “it’ll look good on you, and you can wear it with anything… or nothing.”

“I’ll put it on right now,” you grin, climbing off of him to hook the clasp around your ankle, before dipping off the edge of the bed and moving towards your bag on his dresser.

“Where are you going?” he rolls towards you, pushing the wrapping off the bed and the rest of your present to the other side of the bed.

“I just so happen to have gotten something for you, too,” you hum, rummaging to the bottom of your Birkin to find the sleek wrapped present of your own.

“Oh?” his interest seems piqued, as you turn and bound back towards the bed, crawling back into his lap as you offer him the square box from the palm of your hand.

“Your turn.”

He doesn’t waste nearly as much time as you, and the wrapping is practically shredded as he pulls it out of his way to reveal the Cartier box, eyes slipping back to yours in a mild shock, humor light on his tongue, “Cartier? What am I, your sugar baby, now?”

You joke, “If you want me to call you, ‘baby boy,’ all you have to do is ask.”

That gets a toothy grin from him, as he pops the box open with his own subdued enthusiasm. Your eyes flick between his and the watch, gauging his reaction as he looks at it. Silver, subtle, but sleek enough to display its price, and elegant in its own right.

_“Honey,”_ he drawls softly, reverently, as he plucks the watch from its casing to take a better look at it, dangled from the pads of his index and middle fingers, before slipping it onto the wrist of his left arm. It suits him, you think, before he catches your bated breath and bit lip, nervously watching him.

“Do you like it?”

“‘Do I like it?’” Quentin’s palms smooth up your back, soft at first, until he suddenly takes you by surprise and rolls to press you into the mattress, flat on your back as a gasp scrapes from your tongue, “I love it, honey.” His head dips, lips finding yours as you flatten your palm along the skin of his chest, smoothing up until you reach the curve of his neck, stubble scraping your skin as the sheet between you does barely nothing to keep from insinuating the curve of his length against the warmth of your core. He draws a whimper from you, as your calves slip up the shielded length of his thighs, catching his dark hair in your fingers.

And it was all so perfect, lost in his scent, beneath his weight, that you still hate yourself for speaking after the kiss broke, feeling slightly dizzy with the haze he seemed to always leave over you. Breaking through the soft paradise of this room with your hint of reality.

“Maybe I should wear your gift to the New Year’s party for you, Quen,” it seemed an innocent enough suggestion at the time; how were you to know how loaded it was?

“I’d like that, but it’s not a good idea, princess,” he murmurs, hands working on pushing your shirt up over your chest as you arch into his touch, his warmth.

“Why not?” it was only curiosity, really, provoking and playful, as you poked, “Scared I couldn’t be discreet? I did pretty well at Versace---”

He interrupts, murmuring his explanation in the crook of your neck as casually as if he had just told you the weather, cruel in his wanton obliviousness of your budding feelings for him, or perhaps, he simply didn’t care, “I’m going to the New Year’s party with Victoria.”

You freeze, blinking up at the ceiling as your breath catches in your chest, sobered by his words, yet still unsure you’d heard him correctly, pushing him up by the flat of your hand in the center of his chest, “Wait. What?”

“I’m going with Victoria,” he repeats, looking down at you with a furrowed brow, genuinely confused as to why you were pushing him away from you now.

“You’re… going to the New Year’s party… with Victoria,” you sound out for yourself, bland on your tongue, as you stare up at him, utterly bewildered.

He chuckles, as your heart breaks, “What’s that look for?”

And you can’t even tell him, stumbling around your words as you press him off of you entirely and make your way to the edge of the bed, because he never really said you were exclusive, did he? Not in those words. Not when you weren’t two heartbeats away from melting into each other in the most intimate of ways. He hadn’t promised you anything, and you didn’t even know where to start with telling him how deep it hurt to hear what he was saying. How much it sucked to realize that, you had sought a claim where there wasn’t one. And, _yeah_ , maybe you were overthinking, but he was going to the party with _Victoria_ , and---

And you don’t realize you’re on the verge of tears until he’s following after you as you scoop your jeans from the floor, ringing in your ears broken by his voice and his firm hands on your shoulders, stopping your shaky path, “Honey, where are you going?”

“I--- I need to go home,” is all you can manage, gripping the denim in your hands for dear life, as you tug yourself from his grip. “Don’t--- don’t touch me, Quentin.”

“Oh, come on,” he scoffs, annoyed, crossing the space you place between you with no regard for the pieces of your soul he seems to be stepping on in the process. “Don’t act like this. It’s just a party---”

“When were you going to tell me?” you level him with the intensity of your stare, watching his eyes widen for a moment in realization, as he pieces together just what he’s walked into, “I thought I was _yours_.”

“You are,” he huffs, stepping closer, “this is just business. You should understand that!”

“Just… business?” you grit your teeth, “Tell me, how is taking _her_ instead of _me_ just business?”

“Rapunzel, don’t tell me you’re really that naïve,” his words cut through you like butter, and you flinch back, at having gotten too close. “I can’t take my boss’ daughter to the New Year’s party, right before the spring, when he’s supposed to present my project to the world! It will raise too many questions, and I’ve worked too hard to have my life’s work shadowed by whispers of favoritism this late in the game!”

“Is that what I am to you, Quentin,” you feel tears burning your eyes, flaring at the back of your nose, excruciating as you tug your jeans over your legs, “a _game_?”

“I didn’t say that, and you know I didn’t say that,” he growls in his own annoyance. “Vic and I went last year, and---”

It’s unfair, and insensitive, but you don’t care about either of those things when you ask, “Did you fuck _her_ after the party, too?”

His jaw clamps shut, and you know he’s really pissed now, by the way he bristles, standing up straight as his eyes squint at you, and, somewhere in there, hidden beneath the defensive exterior, is a hint of his own genuine hurt, “Jealousy isn’t cute, princess. You’re acting like a child.”

“You’re right,” you bite back, ignoring the searing sting his accusation tears into the crevices of your chest, grabbing your Birkin and pushing past his imposing form, “but I’m not used to sharing.”

“What do you want from me?” he had shouted, exasperation in his fingertips as he ran them through his dark hair as you spin on him from across the room, finding him hot on your heels and just as furious as you were growing to be.

_Everything._

But it couldn’t come, jaw tight with your own vicious cocktail of emotions, as you spit venom from your lips, “ _Nothing_ , Mister Beck.” You can’t bear it, turning on your heel to escape him as you felt the threat of tears brushing down your cheeks, “I want absolutely _nothing_ from you.”

There was so much you didn’t know about him, so much history that he had kept so close to the vest. Most conversations lasted in the middle of pillow-talk, and most of the time you spent on his pillows wasn’t used _talking_. You’re weak, and your eyes dart across the party to catch Victoria in her irritatingly beautiful green evening gown, catching Quentin talking with her.

Another gulp of your liquor has you grimacing into the glass, but thankfully Danny’s too preoccupied with telling you about his time away from New York to notice. When Quentin’s attention is cast your way once more, and he catches you staring, you rip your eyes from his direction. Desperate to get your mind off of him, you take Danny by the hand, setting your glass down on the side table near the lengthy couch opposite the fireplace.

“Let’s dance,” you urge as you practically drag him to the side of the room where other couples have congregated, swaying bodies to the music as the D.J. puts on another track.

“You want to lead?” Danny teases you, and you remember why the lighthearted boy is who you chose to be your partner tonight.

Breathing deep, you wrap your arms around his neck, “Only if you can’t keep up, Rand!”

“In those heels?” he shoots a look to your Louboutins, the curve of your thigh exposed by the slit of your dress, giving a good view of the sparkly shoes, and the tint of the red bottoms on the metal reflection of the floor, “I’ll leave you in my dust.”

“Didn’t those monks ever teach you that old proverb?” Danny’s brow furrows at your supposed seriousness, before you break into a playful grin, “Don’t count your chickens?”

The side of his lips quirks up, “Not _quite_ the level of wisdom they were passing down.”

His hands come to your hips, swaying in time with the music and you, fun and carefree, for once tonight. Lost in the song, and the lead he takes from you easily. Rand’s better at this than you would think, for a boy who’s more monk than man at this point, you think.

But, hell, if he can’t use his reflexes for something as simple as this, what really is the use?

You let out a startled giggle as he dips you unexpectedly, gripping his shoulders as your laugh rings with the song, muffled in the distance, but the delight on your face gives away your fun. It reminds you of when you were a kid, and he had chased you around the lobby of Rand Enterprises, until his mother had gotten onto the two of you. Uncomplicated and pure.

“I really am glad you’re back, Danny,” you sigh into his ear as he pulls you back up into his chest, moving back into the groove of the people around you. “I missed you.”

“Even after I got gum in your hair in the fifth grade?” Danny holds you close, and you laugh into his shoulder.

“I think it’s been long enough for that grudge to have diminished,” leaning back, you feel his legs bring yours with him as he moves you about the floor, “but if you get gum in my hair, now, I will bring the heat, even if you are _Mister Immortal Iron Fist,_ now.”

“Usually, people leave out the ‘Mister’ part, ‘Immortal Iron Fist’ is fine,” he grins, bright and boyish at you, and for the first time tonight, you feel happy.

Right as the song ends, you drag him, giggling, back off the dance floor, only to be intercepted by your father as you do, hearing the call of your name, “Why didn’t you tell me you’d be bringing Danny tonight?”

“It was,” you glance to him, trying to ignore the wide-eyed stare of your father as he realizes what you’re wearing, “last-minute, Dad, and you know how he has to be dragged to these things, anyway.”

Danny’s hand abandons yours to take Tony’s, shaking the outstretched offer, “Good to see you, Mister Stark.” His eyes go to Pepper at Tony’s side, clearly at a loss until she offers her hand for him to take, next.

“Pepper,” she supplies, polite smile on her lips as she hums, “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mister Rand. It’s good to finally meet you.”

“Ah, just Danny, please,” he smiles.

“Your dress---” Tony begins, red in the face, before Pepper squeezes his arm in what looks to be a painful way.

“Is beautiful,” Pepper interrupts, shooting a pointed look at her husband, before she returns to Danny, “and you’re lucky to be on her arm tonight! She’s never introduced us to any boyfriends, before!”

You burn with your flush, and Tony looks near to that aneurysm you were certain he was going to have at the sight of you in this dress, an awkward laugh escaping you, “Danny and I are just old friends, Pep!”

“That’s right,” he agrees, looking towards you. “Practically grew up in diapers together.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” she laughs, “my mistake!” Tony, still stumbling over his thoughts, is quickly pulled by her and onto the dance floor, “We’ll leave you kids to it. Have a fun time, Danny! And don’t be a stranger.”

“Thank you,” he politely calls after her, as you hear Tony’s strangled whisper to her about what you were wearing, only for her to return a comforting look to your poor father, as she guides his hands to her waist for the next song. Danny’s eyes slip to you as you walk towards the bar, ordering another drink as he slides beside you to lean on the bar top, “So, never introduced any boyfriends before, huh?”

“What’s that look for, Rand?” you huff at him, under the scrutiny of his knowing smirk.

“Nothing, just figured you’d have told them about this _guy_ you’re all down in the dumps over.”

“It’s… complicated, Danny,” you huff, as your fruity drink is placed before you and you sip it gratefully, avoiding his gaze as you fiddle with the straw.

“So, uncomplicate it,” he says, plainly, like it’s so easy. You scoff, shaking your head at the ridiculousness of his statement, until he bumps his shoulder with yours and urges, “No, I’m serious. ‘I’m into you, you’re into me, let’s be together,’ there; uncomplicated.”

“You don’t get it. It’s not that simple,” you finally dare to look at him, feeling the suffocating drown the tsunami of your feelings threatens to draw you into once again.

“Listen,” he sighs, turning to sit on the stool as he nurses his own drink, “any guy who’s worth a damn would know if he’s wasting your time or not, and you’re smart enough not to let him. You’re going to run Stark Industries one day, right?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You’re gonna’ be the boss _, so be the boss_.” A sip of his drink, and then, “Set your terms, clear them out in front of this _complicated_ guy, and see if he takes the deal. If he doesn’t, then you at least don’t have to keep wasting your time anymore.”

You sit there, stirring your drink, looking down into the frozen liquid, until you quirk a small smile at his words, murmuring softly, “Who died and made you the love guru, Danny?”

Without missing a beat, he snickers, “I think it was Mike Myers.”

Smacking his shoulder, you huff out a laugh, “He isn’t dead yet, you goof!”

“Besides,” Danny starts, gesturing offhandedly to your dress, “if he ever saw you like this and didn’t entirely rethink his life, he’s clearly insane, and you don’t need that kind of negativity around your chi.”

“Oh, shut up before I have to hug you, and really set off the rumor mill,” you smile softly back at him, and his curls bounce as he shakes his head at you.

“Alright, alright, we definitely wouldn’t want to fuel _that_ fire,” he agrees, tipping his drink to you and you clink yours in his toast. “For the record, I would definitely stick gum in your hair--- intentionally, this time. There, now you don’t have to hug me. Crisis averted.”

“You’re such an idiot, Rand,” you snort, leaning over to wrap your arm around his shoulders anyway. “Now I have to hug you.”

You’re still hanging onto him, arm in arm, when you hear a throat clear from behind you. Turning your head, your breath catches in your chest when you see him, up close for the first time of the night, looking down at you with those same wide ocean hues that have kept you up time and time again.

“Sorry for interrupting,” Quentin smiles, polite and wide, but it reminds you of the night of the Christmas party, when he had saved you from Janice and steered her away from you. Only, there’s more venom behind his eyes, and a tenseness to his shoulders that hadn’t been there when he had directed those same niceties at his coworker. Your name is brisk, falling from his tongue, and you can see Danny raise a brow at you in your peripheral as Quentin states, rather than asks, “I need a moment with you.”

Danny’s stare lingers on you, curious, as you search your brain for an appropriate answer, until you settle on a dumb, “O-Okay. You don’t mind, do you, Danny? I’ll just be a second.”

He hides his smirk behind his drink as he hums, too knowingly for your liking, and you catch his amusement with your glare as he hints, “Yeah, of course, a _future boss lady_ never gets a break, right?” Too intuitive for his own good, that’s what he was. He calls after you, as you take Quentin’s offered hand to get down off your stool, “Don’t take too long, or you’ll miss the ball drop in thirty minutes.”

His hand finds the small of your back, as he cuts, sharp as a knife, towards Danny, “Don’t worry, she won’t be late for her New Year’s kiss.”

Danny snorts, catching your ear as Quentin guides you away, echoed in the curve of his glass, “Sure.”

His skin sears where his fingertips overlap the fabric and brush bare against the curve of your hip, lips low by your ear, “Where’s somewhere private--- we need to talk.”

Stone cold silence for the last four days, and now he wants to talk?

Steeling yourself, you direct your path towards an offshoot of the hallway leading from the main party deck, knowing it drags further into the tower. The further you get from the crowd, the more the music fades in your ears, and the more you dissolve with the weight of his hand on your back. The closeness of his presence, the smell of his cologne--- it’s enough to make you forget why you were so mad at him to begin with, but the ache in your heart stays to remind you. Dull and throbbing, like a wound slowly bleeding out.

You stop as you turn the corner, rounding on him. Not trusting yourself to be left in too much privacy with this man when something so serious looms in the back of your mind.

“ _What_ , Quentin?”

He frowns, looking over his shoulder, before scanning the remainder of the otherwise vacant hallway, “Nothing more private than this?”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you purse your lips, “No one is going to interrupt us, if that’s what you’re worried about. The only thing this far down is the emergency exit to the stairwell.” His jaw ticks, as you stare him down, watching him watching you, until you can’t stand the delay any longer, “You wanted to talk, so talk.”

Quentin scoffs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his dress pants, glancing down to his shoes in a heated glare before he fixes you with it, looking as if it pains him just to say the words on his tongue, “Rand, really? You’re here with _Daniel Rand_?”

“And? You’re here with _Victoria_ , if I remember correctly,” you counter expertly, trying to keep your voice from quivering with the sting of your still freshly-broken heart. Shrugging him off, as nonchalant as you can manage, “Who cares who I decide to come with?”

He steps forward, closing the distance, backing you into the wall as he hisses, “You know I _do_.”

“You have a funny way of showing it,” and there it is, the vulnerability in your eyes, not hidden nearly as well as he manages to keep his own pride from admitting to.

“Is that what this is about? You’re trying to get back at me, by showing up with--- being all over _him_?” his voice raises for an instant, until he controls it back to a more private tone.

“It’s about me moving on,” you lie, as blatantly as any he had taught you to tell, confessing, “because that’s what I’ll have to do, since you clearly didn’t take me seriously enough. Too ashamed to have me be the one on your arm tonight.”

“Is that why you’re wearing that anklet tonight, or that dress?” his contradiction is so true it hurts, deep in the far reaches of your soul. “That’s not why, and you know it,” he grits, stepping closer until your back’s entirely against the wall and he’s imposing, brutally breaking down the bubble of your personal space with his invasion of it. “Don’t lie to me, honey.”

You hold his stare as long as you can, before breaking to glare at the tie around his throat, tears burning your eyes as they well, threatening to spill at the harsh truth of your confession, “I--- I can’t be _yours_ , if you’re not _mine_. I can’t stand the thought of you with her, not when---” You stop yourself short, stuttering over your shaky gasp, before clamping your mouth shut with the words that claw at the back of your throat.

“Not when what?” he asks, catching you with his fingertips, turning your jaw by the curve of it to face him, to look him in the eye as you say it, the truth, finally.

It’s awful, parting your lips, dry on your tongue as you barely manage to whisper, “Not when I think I’m falling for you the way I am.” Cornered, you don’t know if it’s courage or desperation that has you telling him what you want, “I don’t want you to see anyone else, if you’re with me.”

He tilts his head, and you can’t read him through the blur of your tears, and the carefully constructed mask hiding behind his eyes. One thing you do know, though, is how he’s caged you in, in the midst of your distraction, full body catching you by the wall, one hand on your neck and the other on the wall. There was no escaping him, or the truth you’ve put between you, and you’re terrified.

Because he never promised you anything at all.

“You want to know what I’ve been wanting, all night?” he finally breaks the silence, interrupting what you realize are your own heaving breaths, trying to compose yourself from the brink of sobbing. All you can manage is a nod, constrained by his hand as it slips into your hair, gripping possessive against the back of your skull and drawing a whimper from your lips.

A rabbit caught in a trap.

_“You,”_ he starts, closing the distance between you with the span of a second, lips on yours and soaking you in as you melt, far too easily, against him. Tongue and teeth, familiar and forbidden, and you don’t know if it restores you or breaks you down further to have him again after these past few days. If the warmth of his chest radiating through the tuxedo and into your own is enough for your forgiveness, or if your sloppy confession and halted tears is enough for his. Quentin draws a gasp from your lips, slipping his hand from the wall to find your back, dipping below the loose fabric there to slip beneath the precarious hemline of the dress, clutching at your curves with as much desperate fervor as his kiss held, until it breaks into the two components, both of you breathing hard. He collects himself far before you manage to form a coherent thought, “I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you at the top of those steps. I’ve wanted to rip Rand’s hands off of you. Remind you who you belong to--- the only one you’ve _ever_ belonged to.” His words ring in your ear, breath low as he pulls up your dress, reaching its end far too easily with the parting of the fabric along your thigh, gaining his ground in the flesh of it, hiking over his hip, “I should turn you over my knee for the way you’ve acted. You wanted a reaction? You’ve got one, princess. You’ve got _me_.”

Your head is spinning, reeling from the force of the relief that washes through you, drowning to the point that you really do have to wipe at your eyes to keep from crying. And, for the life of you, you want to sit down and have a coherent, adult conversation about this, about Victoria, about _him_ , and everything else, but you can’t think straight past the point of the overwhelming need to _have_ him. To fix this in the only way you’ve learned to react to him with and, if you were being entirely honest, the feeling of his hands at your thighs and lips blazing along your neck is too good to muddy with words right now. With clarity.

“Tell me,” he breathes along the dip of your dress, trailing the curve of your breast with the ghost of a breath and his sinful intent, low in the forefront of your mind as it you to your core, “who you belong to, Rapunzel.”

Your fingertips card into his dark hair, destroying the styled part in favor of a reckless abandon, as his lips brush just above your navel, leading his way to his knees with your honesty, _“You.”_

“That’s right, princess,” hiking the dress up your thighs, your knee falls on his shoulder, catching the intensity of his gaze as his mouth descends over the lace-covered heat of your core, all pretense shattered. A shudder wracks through you, whimper bit back behind your lip as you watch him, brushing your fingers through his hair as his eyes flutter closed. He breathes you in, tongue pressing through the growing dampness of the fabric that becomes increasingly flimsy the further he tests his waters. It’s lewd, and embarrassing, and if you were to be caught in such a position, you’re certain you would melt into a puddle on the floor, unrecoverable.

But it’s also so _erotic_ , and _wrong_ , that you wonder just how you came to be like this--- to the point that you would let him take you apart in the middle of an off-shoot hallway, barely fifty feet from the party filled with important businessmen, politicians, inventors, Avengers, not to mention your own _parents_ \--- or respective _dates_.

If you weren’t in too deep before, you know you are now. You’re incorrigible. Too caught up in his bad intentions and your own lust to care for any of the sensibilities you had before the moment he got to his knees before you.

He has, truly, ruined you, you realize.

The sparkle of your dress, your shoes, the glint of the diamonds at your ankle, the watch at his wrist, or tuxedo clinging to his shoulders--- none of it makes up for the basic need of the position he has you in. The drag of his tongue as his fingers press at the flesh of your thigh, tugging the pink lace of your underwear to the side if only to debauch you further. A deep groan, bubbling from the back of his throat, and vibrating through the very essence of your being, as he licks you from entrance to clit and back again.

You nearly lose your balance, grappling for his shoulders, as your breath heaves and you try your damned hardest to shut your eyes and your mouth when that tongue dips into you, ever so slightly. His breathing is ragged, nose pressing into the most intimate of places, as the stubble of his jaw scrapes the thigh that balances along his shoulder.

“M-Mister Beck,” you choke along a heady moan, as quiet as you can be, but nothing is safe from the sound of your own wetness, or the pants of your breathing. His tongue flicks along your clit, and you feel him dig a finger into you, right up to the knuckle, forcing an arch to your back. You raise your palm to slap it over your mouth, muffling the surprised squeak that nearly spills unrestrained. The music is loud, but not loud enough to keep your voice from being heard should you cry out unchecked.

You can feel the cool metal around his pinky finger, as it curls and hits along the skin of your inner thigh, while his index and middle press deep within you, and he sounds too damn pleased with himself as he breathes against your clit, “You close, Rapunzel?”

Cocky and infuriating, even in the midst of your making-up with him.

“Mmm---” you barely manage an affirmative sound, before his lips encompass your clit and suck, pace of his fingers picking up just to spite you. You bite into the back of your hand, burying your moan there as your grip tightens on his shoulder, legs shaking as he fucks you on his fingers and mouth.

Relentless, and mean--- that’s what he was. How you could have let yourself catch feelings for him, you would never know. Maybe you really were naïve, like he said.

Your walls clamp down around his fingers, warmth spreading through your lower back until it snaps up your spine, sending you rigid and gasping through the peak of your climax, biting it down on the back of your hand until you’re certain you’ll leave a mark. Whole body fuzzy and tingling from it, legs shaking in their effort to do their job as he slips his fingers from within you and pulls your thigh from over his shoulder, urging you to stand while he rights your dress for you. You’re too out of it to even worry about how messy you looked, as he stands to his feet, tempting at your lips and slipping his tongue to yours in an open, raw kiss, somewhere between your vulnerability and his demandingness.

“I--- I need you to--- to fill me up,” you whisper against him, hearing his breath hitch as you hold his gaze, burdened with lust and lecherous. Staring you down with only the intent to give you more than you bargained for, but you aren’t afraid of the trouble your tongue is getting you into, “Only you, Quen--- I need it right now. _Please_ \--- I want more. I want _you_.”

His fingers dip beneath your dress to hook into the straps of your panties, pushing them down your thighs, a promise at his lips, “I’ll give it to you, honey. You know you always take it so well for me.” Plucking your panties from between your ankles, he folds them tightly, then orders, “Open that pretty mouth, princess.”

You know, one day you’ll regret your obedience to him, but the demands he gives you only serve to make you hotter, a laced fear intermingling in your excited arousal as he pushes your boundaries. As of yet, there’s nothing he’s suggested that you’ve refused, and every degrading boundary only serves to show you how much you crave it--- _him_.

You were good and thoroughly _fucked_ , when he shoves your panties into your mouth--- his makeshift gag.

“Good girl,” he praises, turning your hips as he coos, tempting, urging, “now, turn around, and spread your legs.” His foot is already between your thighs, forcing in time with his request, moving your feet apart for his body to press, lean against yours, stuck between him and the firm, unrelenting wall. Your dress is pushed to the side, twisted around your waist as his hand smooths the curve of your ass, squeezing, while you hear the other unzip his pants.

His name is muffled in your mouth, begging stopped by the gag, and he clicks his tongue at your ear, “You’ve made me wait a week, honey, _you_ can wait a few seconds longer.”

He was punishing you now, with his excruciating slowness, and you know it. Slipping the thick length of himself through your folds, hitting your clit with the head of his dick, before drawing back and hitching at your entrance---

Only to redirect his path and slip through your folds again.

He was trying to kill you, you’re certain.

A whine leaves you, defeated and desperate, as his hand drags along your inner thigh, prodding, while he keeps his torturous rock as if you _weren’t_ doing this in the middle of a hallway. The flat of your hand hits the wall in your frustration, as he abruptly reaches up to tug you by your hair, back to his shoulder, breath hot by your ear.

“No one can make you feel this way but me,” he growls, punctuating the assertion by finally pressing into you, splitting you open with all the ache that comes with almost a week without him. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, a curse at his tongue, before he groans, “I’m the only one--- who can fuck you like this. Make you feel this good.”

You nod, frantic, anything to keep him where he is, to push him further within you--- to bottom him out. Splitting you open so deliciously, so deep in a way that was muscle memory at this point. Too perfect for you to bear the thought of losing again.

You’re gasping for air around the gag, as his pelvis comes flat against your ass, pushing you into the wall and _grinding_ there. His own breathless groan escaping his lips. It’s getting to him, despite how composed he wanted to look.

“I’m going to fuck you so good--- you won’t think of anyone else,” Quentin bites, scraping teeth along your throat as his hand releases your hair to slip beneath your arm and come, tight around it. Catching you by the neck and controlling your arch, his pace, as he pistons his hips up into you over and over again. Taking your breath with every thrust, and making it harder to suck in oxygen with his grip at your throat--- choking you.

Your head is foggy, as he murmurs filth by your ear, but it’s exactly what you want to hear. It felt like you were on fire, burning bright like a comet hurtling towards earth as the pleasure sparked with every drag of the curve of his dick within you. Hitting in all the right places, a pace picking up until you can barely think straight. All you can hold onto is his arm leading to your throat, nails digging into his wrist, and the palm flat on the slick wall in front of you.

“You’re mine--- you hear me, honey? You’re _mine_ \---” his tongue presses into your shoulder, where his lips encompass and he _sucks_ , drawing a high whine from the back of your throat as he fucks you into the wall, “don’t you dare forget it again.” You feel a shudder wrack through him as he kisses up to the hollow of your ear, “I don’t share well, either.”

The firmness of his chest, digging into your back, the straining of the muscles in his arms, even through the fabric of his tuxedo--- you’re lost. Incoherent, barely breathing. Choking around his hand and the lace in your mouth.

“I’m gonna’---” he gasps, and the sloppy pace of his thrusts tells you how he’s as much at the end of his rope as you are, “cum inside this tight little pussy--- and then maybe you won’t forget who you come home to--- when it’s dripping down your thighs--- when you go back out there--- to send that _boy_ home.” He’s cruel, unrestrained, as he groans in your ear, “You go be nice to him, but we both know who the only one is who gets to see you like this--- isn’t that right, princess?”

His hand tightens around your throat for an instant, and if his words, his dick, the weight of his body pressing against yours wasn’t enough already--- that was it. Snapping within you with a ferocity you hadn’t felt in _so long_ , your orgasm claims you in a white, blinding electricity that rips down your spine, spreading through your limbs until you’re nothing more than the tight, velvet vice pulsing against him, writhing within his arms, and he holds you so tight you think he might break you. His moans echoing in your head, the only noise past the rushing of the blood in your own ears, before you feel his thrusts falter, and he buries himself _deep_. Hot warmth spreading through your cunt, twitching as he spills himself within you, drool seeping down the side of your mouth, from the soaked panties trapped between your teeth.

His grip on your throat only eases up after he rocks himself within you once, twice, three more times, and slips out. Kissing your neck and tugging the light lace from your lips, turning you on unsteady legs. Quentin claims it, next. Kisses you like he always did after--- slow and deep, _passionate_ , in a way you had never felt before him. Wanted.

“Such a good girl,” he praises, tugging your dress back down before he even tucks himself back into his pants. You were both disheveled--- moreso than before, but by the time he’s smoothed his hair and tux jacket back down, and you’ve righted his tie, it’s enough of a deception to at least mimic your decency. The harsh truth of it was dripping down your thighs, however.

“You meant what you said,” you breathe softly, still trying to calm your thundering heartbeat, “about you being mine?”

Quentin closes the distance, smoothing his hand along your neck, where his grip had been so relentless a few moments ago, “Honey, I’ll be yours, as long as you are mine.”

You nod, unable to keep the smile from quirking your lips, catching his gaze through your lashes, “Alright, after tonight, no more dates with other people.”

“Agreed,” he sighs, and you hold out your hand, to which he raises a brow.

“My panties, please,” you remind, expectant eyes innocent and trusting.

He winks at you, sharp grin cutting through his perfect jawline, as he tucks them into his pocket, “You can come get them from me, next time you come out of your tower, Rapunzel.”

_Ten!_

_Nine!_

_Eight!_

Tilting his head towards the excited chant, he breathes, “Countdown’s started. How do you want to start the New Year?”

_Seven!_

_Six!_

_Five!_

“Is it too cliché, to say with a kiss?” your smile widens, subdued by your teeth digging into your kiss-swollen bottom lip.

_Four!_

_Three!_

_Two!_

“I don’t think so,” Quentin murmurs, brushing his fingers along your jaw and dipping his head, as you arch on your feet to meet him halfway.

_One!_

This year was going to be different, you could feel it.


	5. You're Killing Me With Every Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ”Right now, I want you like this, Rapunzel.”  
> In the aftermath of the New Year’s Party, you find yourself lost in the high of a honeymoon phase, and the seemingly deepening connection between you and Quentin. But, like all phases, even this one must come to an end. Maybe, he’s just as lost in it as you are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: NSFW; age gap, innocence/corruption kink, slow/sweet unprotected sex (more vanilla this one, lol, but the next one will be less, promise), weensy bit of jealousy/possessiveness if you squint, generally more fluffy than the last chapters
> 
> A/N: Subtlety? Never heard of her 💅 I don’t pretend this is anything more than a quenching of my craving for drama and smut. I am so sorry this took forever! I was honestly so blocked midway through this,and every time I rewrote the next half it kept sounding worse and worse to me, so I’ve given up trying to make it sound less cringe. I sincerely hope this is not as cringe as I think it is, but alas,there’s gonna’ be like, 2 more parts, where I can hopefully redeem myself if this made you suffer, because I want it to have a proper end that I can now foresee in my mind, if only I can get there lol!!

##  **_Rapunzel_ ♛ _Part V (NSFW)_**

Photo sources: [1](https://yourjamesbuckybarnes.tumblr.com/post/190421516856/bienenkiste-take-two-photographed-by-ben-toms) | [2](https://yourjamesbuckybarnes.tumblr.com/post/619610825907372032) | [3](https://yourjamesbuckybarnes.tumblr.com/post/619615553214169088/thequeen-bb) | [4](https://yourjamesbuckybarnes.tumblr.com/post/619615651311632384/alice-boards-minty) | [5](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/611772706921365504/jakegyllenhaal-source) | [6](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fpbs.twimg.com%2Fmedia%2FD1-jvaYW0AA_YZz.jpg&t=NTI5YTEzNGRjZDgxYjE1ODBjODNhMzIxZWVjNzhhNjUyYzkyNTk0YyxwMUt2b29WVw%3D%3D&b=t%3AuNoi0AujsProexVbD5JsWA&p=https%3A%2F%2Fthranduilsperkybutt.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F624774572657573888%2Frapunzel-part-v-nsfw-part-1-part-2&m=0&ts=1595832372)

* * *

It was around eleven, and while the laziness of a Sunday morning was typically lost in the heart of Manhattan, the peace of this room was left untouched by the fast pace of the city below. Bare feet flex along hardwood as he sits at the side of his bed as he runs his hands through his hair. The woman in the sheets beside him still sleeping, blissfully ignorant of the trouble stirring on his brow. He spares a glance to the part of his curtained window, frowning at the hint of the beautiful day beyond it, because that couldn’t be right, _could it_? Not with the storm brewing inside him.

_What was he even doing, anymore?_

At first, saying what was easy to hear had been second nature. Simple, even, showing only the side of himself that he wanted to be seen, because playing a role with you wasn’t unlike how he manufactured the versions of himself suitable for other roles in his life. Getting his way had almost never been so straightforward, back when all he had wanted was found in basic and frivolous wants. But when New Year’s hit, meaningless words suddenly sounded significantly less empty to even his own ears, fueled with more visceral, unhinged emotion that he couldn’t have manufactured if he tried.

Well, maybe if he _really_ tried.

Despite the credit he wanted to give himself, regrettably he could only admit that somewhere between then and now, _something_ had changed, or, at least, that was how it felt. If he were being honest, perhaps the sense of abruptness was only due to the clandestine awareness that had, for lack of better word, crept up on him. Unexpected, and shaking so deep that he could swear he felt it in his bones.

Because this was never supposed to be more than that, right? _A basic want._

The truth of it was, Beck had wanted you since the moment he saw you, if only on the singular insistence that you were decidedly the one thing Tony Stark cherished more than anything else in this world. Commandeering his project for its now excruciatingly simplistic use as a therapy aid, had cultivated Beck’s seething annoyance for authority into full-blown contempt, and his focus had narrowed in on a solution for the driving sense of petty revenge that nipped at his heels. Envy, greed, call it whatever you want— the way you were doted upon by your father made you a rather strategic object in which to hurt him, and while Beck could never outright confront the source of his disdain— don’t bite the hand, and all that— he certainly could satisfy the urge, secondhand.

So when you had barged into Stark’s office, all those months ago, and smiled up at him with an unassuming, gentle politeness, he hadn’t missed the _something more than that_ in your eyes. The slight dilation of your pupils, and, no matter how discreet it had been, he had seen the way you looked over his features with an interested appraisal. Beck was nothing if not observant, and in the span of less than ten minutes, he had figured you a decidedly _fun_ thing to occupy his time.

And maybe there had always been a dark urge to possess, an instinctively toxic way in which he wanted to mar that perfectly sheltered appearance of yours, but the fact that he wound up enjoying it more than he should have was just the debilitating side-effect of it all.

He hadn’t had the chance to act on anything until the Christmas party, when, _for once_ , you weren’t flanked by someone rarely seen without a righteous cape or ostentatious tights that somehow declared them to have better judgement than the rest of the humanity they claimed to serve. His initial goal had been a simple one, just enough to sate his taste for the entertainment he desired that night, which was not satisfied by the undercurrent of Christmas cheer.

Fooling around with you was as much a challenge as it was a prize to be had. A middle-finger in Tony Stark’s direction, that would leave Beck with plenty of wry satisfaction to last until the spring presentation, where Stark would present all his work while he remained a footnote at the end of a powerpoint presentation. The shattering of that ivory tower of yours would be more satisfying than any consolation prize. After all, Beck acknowledged he had a bad habit of breaking his toys when he was through with them.

But teasing you was too fun to give up. Before he could even blink, he had let this go on for too long, and now there was… something. Something more than just the bittersweet desire drawing him to you once again, slipping him into the lukewarm gray area where his lies mingled too closely with the truth, drifting him further to caring than not.

_He needed to snap out of it. Chase down his common sense. Anything other than—_

_“Fuck,”_ it’s barely even a whisper, dripping closer to a groan with something close to disappointment. He rests his elbows on his knees, catching his jaw in the crook of his index and thumb at the unsettling weight deep in the pit of his abdomen, mind racing as he pinpoints just where he’s felt it before. The very same flip of the stomach had plagued him at the New Year’s party, and it had been incessant, far too uncontrollable to ignore.

The argument had been juvenile, and the perfect excuse to end things as they were. He had entirely expected you to call— to text— _something_ displaying you had cracked first, that he had won this game he fancied himself so clever to think only he was aware you were playing. But when you came in with your own date, wearing the dress _he_ had bought you, the simmering rage was too strong to continue convincing himself that he was the level-headed party in an entirely one-sided infatuation. Once incapable of reflection, the startling reality that he cared _at all_ who you decided to show up with was as much a slap to the face as it was evidence of his own lapse in judgement, and suddenly he wasn’t all that clever, at all.

Because, _yeah_ , he had said things, but up until then they had been words broken off in the heat of a moment, easily written-off as ultimately meaningless lures to drag you further towards him. Yet, he was more than painfully sober standing at the foot of those stairs, and all he could even think about as you descended them with yet another fucking _hero_ clinging to your side, was the solid notion of a claim which had only been laid between soft moments and heated gasps— that he had convinced himself was entirely made up of empty promises— and that certainly, should not have left his mind ringing with the intensely echoing label of _his_ that he had placed upon you, if there weren’t a truth seated deep within it.

And it wasn’t enough anymore to simply know that he had had you.

Beck didn’t know whether to be impressed, upon the realization that you were just as selfishly impulsive as he was; an undeniable truth to the matter, his entire inability to stomach seeing you with Rand any more than you had tolerated the thought of him with Victoria. Every inch of the interaction, from the calculated ruthlessness of arriving with another man in the wake of your sullen silence, to the glaring message left solely for him by the diamonds draped along your ankle, proved it. And maybe it was the nearly the equivalent of a child throwing a temper tantrum, but he didn’t know why he had ever underestimated your own ability to get what you wanted in the first place. After all, the assumption that you’d been given it nearly all your life had led to his initial abhorrence in the first place.

Even more baffling, was the haze of satisfaction that had come with making up— ugly, unfiltered emotion driving him to take you right in the hallway, too hastily real to trick himself into thinking it wasn’t. The days following, where getting lost in this hazy afterglow had been more disgustingly natural than any lies he could weave for his own benefit, was the most shocking of all. Things circled back to the way they were before, but there’s an edge to the déjà vu; a crippling sense of unease that had crept upon him until it was smothering— and all he could seem to focus on.

_Maybe he was obsessed._

This shouldn’t bother him so much, but it _does_ , because it was never meant to get like this. It was never meant to be more than _just sex_ — an occupancy of his time to leave him with the intimate satisfaction that came with the knowledge that he’d taken a bite out of the apple of Tony Stark’s eye.

His grip on his phone is tight, as he glares down at the screen with all the annoyance he felt at himself for falling into this mess. The fact that it even bothered him _at all_ bothers him, because the swirling jealousy in his gut is the only real proof he has that there’s something terrifyingly honest saturating the words he’s written off as tools to have his way.

A silly gossip magazine shouldn’t irritate him this much, but it does— and he was probably projecting, but his awareness of that doesn’t help, either.

> _Sparks fly at New Year’s Party as the heirs of Stark Industries and Rand Enterprises get cozy! A match made in heaven? An insider close to the source tells us they’re serious._

It was so _stupid_ , but speculation fueled by a terribly fuzzy shot of you and Rand dancing on New Year’s was more than enough for them to run with. Realistically, Quentin knew it wouldn’t be too long until it was old news, and, sure, it hadn’t _really_ been front-page, but the sheer reality of the topic lingering until your return to M.I.T. was reminding him that you were returning to university, and hard deadlines were never things Beck was good at keeping.

With the days clicking by into January and the speculation of your relationship status raging with gossip, it left him acutely aware of the impending end to your stay here in Manhattan. Worst of all, it left him admitting, in the deepest parts of himself he’d rather not admit, that there was a threatening lurch in the center of his chest at the thought of it.

He was going to actually miss it, when you were gone and he was left to return to how he was before the subtle addiction of your presenting distraction. Of course, there was more than enough work to throw himself into in the meantime, but he hadn’t quite figured in the rapid end of… whatever _this_ had become in the last couple weeks, and he didn’t know if he wanted to even broach the topic, in the reality of your silence on it. Did he even want you to bring it up at all, or was it somehow better that you just be gone one day, without the complication of a good-bye?

For once in his life, Quentin Beck can’t say what it is that he wants, and maybe that makes this even worse, because any chance at preserving his conviction that this was just another in a line of one-hit wonders had crumbled entirely when he’d asked you to spend the night. He was, truly, making it up as he went along at this point.

The rustling of fabric breaks his reflection, a glance spared over his shoulder as his brow smooths with subtle curiosity. You turn from your side to your stomach, the sheets beneath your fingers bunching as you curl in on where the warmth of him was no longer slotted closely into you, just on the verge of waking to the late morning sunlight that intrudes along your cheekbone, as much a mess in your hair as you were in his sheets.

Dissolving back into the bed, a brush of his hand along your spine sends what had briefly been a modest covering of your shoulders down to your waist, exposing the truth of your nakedness. It’s a gross oversimplification to say that he kisses you because he wants to, but in this moment, it’s the only justification he can give. An excuse, in every sense of the word, because the light swell of his chest at the sight of consciousness stirring beneath your eyelids is something he does his best to ignore.

Right now, it may as well be the only thing that matters, considering the sleepy, contented sound that slurs from your lips when he drags his own along the bare skin of your shoulder. A heavy press, the scratch of stubble bringing you back into this world, as he encompasses your body with his own and trails the kisses upwards, until you’re erupting into giggles beneath him when the increasingly lengthier scruff that has overtaken his jaw tickles the curve of your neck.

“Morning, honey,” rasps from his throat with all the low grumble of the first spoken words of the day, breath at your ear drawing you to turn your head towards the tempting ghost of his lips at your jaw.

“What time is it?” you manage to ask before he descends upon you, stealing your breath and effectively stunting all effort to turn over beneath him with the way he captures you in his kiss. The minty flavor of toothpaste gives away the truth of his morning, if the light sweats that hung low on his hips weren’t evidence enough that he’d been out of bed.

It leaves you smiling near the end of it, but the stir of arousal in your gut leaves you in as much a haze as the sleepiness does, “Eleven-ish.”

You squirm beneath him, pushing up with a sharp, “ _Eleven_? Why’d you let me sleep so late?”

“What?” he chuckles, easing up only enough to allow you to flip over, but pressing you back down into the mattress and settling his weight over you once more. His mouth hovers close to your own, dripping with a haughty amusement, before peppering his kiss there, “Like you have something to do today.”

“That’s not what I mean— I can’t come home this late wearing the same clothes I wore the day before— what if someone _sees_ ,” you whine, trying your best to keep your pout fixed, but he seems intent on lulling your thoughts away from the issue at hand, with the way his mouth has slipped to the curve of your neck.

“Ah, the walk of shame,” he murmurs against the skin like he cares, but the soft seriousness of it is a tone you’ve come to realize he reserves for when he’s joking, “I’m afraid you’re just going to have to wear a scarlet letter when you return to your tower, Rapunzel.”

The laugh that escapes you is breathy, “That was for adultery— thankfully, I’m safe.”

“Oh, but are you?” his hands grip at your waist, and when he leans back the way you arch up into the warmth of his chest comes instinctually by now, but there’s a sharpness to his dismissive tone that makes you blink up at him through the haze of sleep, “An inside source says you’re dating that guy you brought to the New Year’s party.”

“God,” you groan, wiping your eyes of any remaining tiredness in them, “you’d think there’d be more important things to go on about.”

“Apparently not.”

“Well, if Pepper or Dad happen to spot me slinking back home at noon wearing yesterday’s clothes, a tabloid rumor will be the least of my worries,” you look up at him pointedly, poking him square in the chest. “It’ll be a complete nightmare, and it’ll be all _your_ fault, Mister Beck.”

“I’m sure the guilt would eat me alive,” he teases dryly, but your dramatics earn you a grin, while he draws you closer by the hips.

“Trust me!”

“If you’re that worried about it, just grab something of mine,” effectively stuns you into silence, but his smile only gets wider, teeth cutting along the curve of it when he chuckles, “or don’t.” His eyes flick to your lips, like he wants to kiss you again, and you nearly get whiplash when he eases off of you instead. Untangling himself from between your legs to rise from the bed, sparing a glance over his shoulder as he tugs up his sweats from where they’ve slipped low on his hips, “Either way, hurry up and get dressed.”

“Huh?”

Casually, he says, “After last night? Honey, I’m taking you to breakfast.”

The scrape of his dresser drawer punctuates your silence, before you sit up slightly to cast your raised brow in his direction, hoping the tease in your smile is enough to mask the fluttering in your stomach, “Oh? I’m glad I made an impression.” He chuckles, tugging a crew neck overhead. A casual long sleeve that effectively covers his chest but does nothing to stop you from staring, until he turns to face you with a black turtleneck in hand, shutting the drawer with his lean. “I love brunch, but I hope you know a place that’s private, or there’ll be rumors about us in the next issue of _People_.”

“I know just the place. If you want, I’ll even wear a hat— we’ll be unrecognizable,” Quentin’s lips quirk up into a crooked smile, “and this looks pretty unisex. You’ll owe me, though, for saving you from the walk of shame.”

“You’re saving yourself as much as me,” you shoot back with a roll of your eyes, taking the fabric from his hands and holding it up for a better look, “but I can think of a couple ways to make it up to you.” It would fit well enough to not be suspicious. After all, it isn’t like you don’t own your own fair share of sweaters like this one, though men’s clothing had a habit of being made of sturdier stuff than the thin layers they reserved for women. A simple tug and it’s over your head, warm and thick around your throat and, thankfully, covering any suspect blemishes he’s left upon your skin. Your thumbs trace the end of the sleeves, which are a bit too long, but manageable as you sit on your knees to take a glance down yourself. Gesturing to it, you look back to Quentin for his opinion, “Does it say, ‘I’m presentable,’ to you?”

You’re halfway through fussing over folding the collar at your neck when he dips the bed with the weight of his knee, hands tilting your head upwards by your jaw while he pretends to scrutinize you in it, grinning wide and wolfish as his head dips towards yours, “It’s hard to say you look presentable, when it’s the only thing you have on, honey.”

“That’s not what I meant,” you huff, a squeak really, with his closeness, as you feel a burn creep up your cheeks from its roots beneath the turtleneck. You don’t know if you’ll ever get used to him looking at you like he is now, like you’re something to be devoured. Dark suggestion in his eyes as he takes you in, far more ravenous than the gentleness of his hand along your cheek will suggest.

Blinking up at him, your own lure washing over him, he doesn’t think he’d have the strength to refuse if you pulled him back in.

“You’d better _get_ decent, or we’ll be here all day,” he warns, but the humor is drowned with the way he looks at you, and you’re not joking either, despite the smirk at your lips.

“Did I wake up in a world where breakfast in bed is no longer an option?”

And your hands are slipping up his stomach, bringing his sweater with them as you tug him closer by the fabric, the shift in his breathing the only evidence of his wavering resolve, “You want to risk delivery? They’ll get it wrong—”

“Quentin,” it’s the closest to growling at him you’ve ever come, as you slide flush against him, spotting his amused brow as you urge, “if you don’t shut up and kiss me—”

You lean closer, and to your infuriating dismay, he tilts his head back, just to rile you, but he can’t keep the serious line of his lips, “Quite bossy, Miss Stark.”

“Come on, Quen,” you whine for your proven victory, splaying your hands over the curve of his hips, feeling him tense as you lay your lips chastely along his jaw, his hand slipping further to the nape of your neck when you giggle, “please make me a little less decent, before I have to go?”

It’s breathless, the short laugh which preludes, “Someday you’re going to realize you’re in over your head, asking me for things like that,” and it’s a slur of arousal that follows the humor as he breaks the show of restraint, as if there were ever any other end to your requests. He gives in too easily, you both know. His lips are insistent, harsh, and pressing as he drags you to him by the grip he has along the back of your neck, but in all other senses, his body melts into yours.

If it were any less arousing, you would have laughed against his lips, because you’ve realized the truth of it since the moment you first took him to bed.

Apart from the turtleneck, which rides up as he settles you into his lap, he has you at a firm disadvantage, which is precisely where you’ve discovered you like to be when it comes to moments with him. Bare against the fabric of his sweats, you know he’ll need to change them before he goes anywhere today, because you’re surely wet enough to ruin the light gray of them as he pulls you down to grind against the growing length he’s barely separated you from by the fabric.

Your whimper he meets with a heavy breath, wasting no time in parting your folds with the slip of his fingers, more certain than he’s ever been, if it were possible, because he’s learned you by now. He knows how you like it, and while the teasing was as much for his own benefit as your own, the foreplay wasn’t what he hungered for right now. All thoughts of a proper brunch have been washed from your mind, at least for now. Watching you through lidded eyes as you gasp into his touch, ghosting close to his lips with your own, his fingers stroke perfectly against you, and you’re gripping his hair by the time he’s pressing, knuckle-deep.

“Show me,” you urge, grinding into his hand, thighs shaking as his thumb flicks against your clit. Dragging you along the length of his index and middle, you can barely think to finish your foolish request, “S-Show me how in over my head I am.”

Pushing your boundaries was nothing new to him, and you had yet to find your limit.

Which is why it’s so shocking, when he kisses you again, and instead promises, “Next time, honey.” He curls his fingers, and you jolt against him, as his other hand reaches from the nape of your neck to twine into your hair, guiding you against him as he murmurs, “Right now, I want you just like this, Rapunzel.”

Still, you were far from disappointed, under the intensity of his lidded gaze and the press of his length. Your fingers push past the elastic of his sweats, into the heat between his thighs, and to say that this was familiar is nearly as embarrassing as how much you want him. His breath stutters against your lips, soft groan escaping as you grip him properly, soft and tantalizing as you feel him shift closer to the stroke of your fingers.

Giving into him is not as difficult as it should be, because compared to every other time you’ve done it, he seems different, this morning. His touch is just as desperate, as determined, but while the lust swirling in his eyes is every bit as dark as it always was, there’s something in the way he watches, something in the arch of his brow, and the way he leans you back, with a gentleness that was almost uncharacteristic, with how you’ve become used to having him.

Something softer, like the consent dripping from your tongue, and the duvet he presses you down into, “Okay.”

For once, he’s silent, as his gaze briefly slipping along you, before he drapes himself against you to kiss up your throat, nipping at your jaw. He rolls his hips into the curve of your hand, but you can barely pay proper attention with the way his own have slipped from you to push at his sweats almost hastily, releasing you from the elastic along your wrist.

Neither of you bother undressing more than that, and the desperate turn by the ache to have him within you takes precedence over any other thought. You don’t care if it’s sloppy or fast, you want him, and the prolonged kiss he leaves at your lips is as close as you can come to describing that to him.

You guide him as he pulls your thighs over his own, hitching your hips towards his own as he presses into you slowly. It’s delicious torture, feeling the resistance he pushes against until he splits you with all the practice of every other time before. His arms wrap around you, fingertips gripping into the fabric of his sweater along your shoulder and waist to use your body as the leverage he needs to rock himself into you once again, groaning against your high whine as his teeth drag along your bottom lip.

He’s wound you up, the both of you, until you feel like you’ll snap with how tightly he’s got you in his arms, and if he were to fuck you any harder than the slow, despicable grind of his hips into yours, you’re certain you would. But he doesn’t, no matter how much you expect him to, instead drawing out the pleasure with his pace, until you’re sweating from the combination of his body heat against you and the sweater along your torso, and you can’t tell if it’s because he’s genuinely worried for his ability to last longer than this, or if it’s just because he wants to feel you writhe against him.

Both, probably, with the way he grins against every whimper you make at his lips, drinking your desperation with all the self-indulgence he ever did. When you try to urge him on with the curve of your calves into his thighs, he only slips the hand he’s had around your waist back down between you, stoking the flames with the circles he drags along your clit.

His name comes muffled against his lips, but still retains all your prodding urgency as he drives you further into the abyss, and he departs from you only long enough to murmur back, “You’re making a mess of me, honey.” He grinds against you, pressing flat against your clit as he hits you deep, releasing your shoulder to rake his fingertips through the crown of your hair only to dig in. Your nails drag down the fabric over his back, arching up into him with a mewl that he catches with his tongue, kissing whatever sense you had left from your mind, until all there is is his body against yours, and the ravenous drive to reach your end.

Neither of you last long, but that hadn’t been the point of it to begin with. While the need to finish was just as prevalent as ever, the need to feel the closeness was just as fueling— and there’s something looming, heavy, as it drapes over you like a lead blanket, in the immediate aftermath. A fluttering in your stomach, a nervousness in the air, electrifying in a way that doesn’t dispel when he looks down at you, because you aren’t sure if you see it in his eyes, too, or if that was wishful thinking.

You pretend you don’t notice it, because acknowledging it is just as terrifying as the fact that it was there to begin with, and just as quickly as it was there, it’s gone. A blink, and you can almost forget about it, when he drags himself from within you, and maybe you’re imagining the slight guilt before he looks away from you. The light, airy feeling of your afterglow, oppressively bittersweet as you find you can barely breathe, wracking the shambles of your brain for anything to say instead of what you find threatening to spill from your throat.

You go with, “So… breakfast?” and it’s almost so out of place that you’re certain that’s the reason he laughs into the palm of his hand before rolling off of you, but it’s better than any stupid confession that would have made this churning in your stomach worse than it already was.

You’re somewhere between tearing through the tangles of your hair as best you can with your fingers and trying to quell the butterflies that still managed to haunt you when the food comes, and by the time you drag yesterday’s jeans up your legs you’ve almost overcome the feeling entirely.

His voice wafts through the crack in the bathroom door, somewhat distant, and equally as hesitant, “You’re going to… go back to school soon, yeah?”

Pressing it all the way open, you catch sight of him, black plastic container in hand and mouth halfway into wrapping around a forkful of omelette. His eyes flick from his plate towards you at the movement, while you collect your socks from the floor to slip the soft fuzz along your feet.

You feel him watching as you answer, “Mhm, classes start back next week.” He nods and you settle yourself onto the bed, gripping for your own plate and popping open the clear plastic covering as you cross your legs. “Tuesday,” you roll your eyes, “because the academic calendar falls weird like that.”

“At least it’s your last semester, which you must be happy about,” he hums. “Know I was.”

“Where’d you go?”

“You didn’t read it in my employee file, Miss Stark?” Quentin shoots, teasing grin meeting his sip of his coffee.

“I don’t snoop through confidential employee files! Technically, I don’t even work at Stark Industries, yet.”

“ _Sure_ you don’t.”

“I don’t!”

His chuckle at your defensiveness doesn’t help the burning in your cheeks, but he relents, at least a little, “I went to M.I.T., too.” Quentin shrugs, “It’s a good school, of course, but it was an excuse to get away from home above anything else.”

“Where’s home?” you wonder, catching his eye, and the hint of distaste in it.

“Riverside, California.”

“What’s wrong with California?” you tilt your head, watching him as he scoffs.

“Nothing’s wrong with _California_ ,” but it sounds a little bitter, and the longer you look at him, the more you wear on the thin veil keeping him from elaborating. “It’s just, there’s nothing there for me anymore.”

If you were more tactful, you would have left it at that, but instead, you ask, “What about your parents? They must be proud of you.”

The smile he flashes is wry, “Haven’t seen them in a bit, but I’m sure they’re just glad I got out of my theater phase. Dad never had a tolerance for it.”

“Theater?” you grin, “Did you act?”

“ _Hah_ —! Like he would’ve let me,” Quentin shakes his head. “I loved movies, though, and I was always pretty good at tinkering around. Special effects, that kind of thing.” He glances at you, and his bitter smile softens into something a bit more genuine, “I had this camera. It was just some old hand-me-down of my uncle’s, but I remember, for a good month I was obsessed with filming.”

“Like what?”

“Anything, everything. Nothing,” it’s almost wistful, the way he talks about it, before looking back down to his food, and suddenly the softness in his voice is gone, replaced with a coldness, “Even thought I’d wind up working in film, back then. Dad had enough of it, though, because the camera found its way into the trash when I was at school, and that was the end of that,” his smile falls a bit, before he takes another bite of his omelette and waves off the memory with a dismissive hand. “Doesn’t matter, now, anyway.” He adds,somewhat distant, “Just some silly childish hobby I had a long time ago.”

You reach out, laying your hand along his forearm and dragging his gaze back to yours, “It doesn’t sound silly to me, Quen.” You smile at him, and he furrows his brow, “I bet you were good at it.” Retrieving your hand, you take another sugary bite of your pancake, “But, I must admit, for purely selfish reasons, I’m glad you decided to move to New York instead of going to some film school in California.”

“Oh?” his smile is wider, more _real_ , as he quips, “Are you, now?”

“Yeah, I mean,” your laugh sounds slightly nervous, even to your ears, as you confess, “these last few weeks have been… fun. It’s hard to believe break’s almost over.”

“Don’t tell me you’ll miss me, Rapunzel?” Quentin grins, somewhat teasing, but the way he watches as you dare meet his eye is equally as questioning, and you’re in too deep to entirely deny him an answer.

“Maybe a little,” the next sip of your drink saves your tongue from further confession, but you’re not stupid enough to think he can’t see through the modesty. His soft silence is welcome, and you finish the last of your meal with simpler conversation.

But as you near the door, catching a kiss in his entryway, a thoughtful hum and hand at your wrist stops your exit, “Tuesday, you said?”

“Huh?”

“Tuesday, is when you’re supposed to be back at school?”

“That’s right.”

It’s casual and off-handed, the way he says it, like he hasn’t spent the entirety of the end of your brunch thinking about it, but your heart jumps to your throat all the same when he offers, “Let’s do dinner, before you leave.”

“Are you asking me on a date, Mister Beck?” any teasing fizzles with the seriousness in his eyes, and the simmering excitement is masked well enough by the nervous flip of your stomach, “What will I say if someone sees us?”

“Business; isn’t that the best excuse?” Quentin chuckles, suddenly focused with the fabric of the sweater along your sleeve, his hand smoothing up to your elbow, “Just say I offered you a position on my team when you graduated, or something. I’m sure you’ve gotten similar offers by now, anyway.” A glance in your direction confirms it, and he smirks, “After all, it wouldn’t be right to have you leave Manhattan without a proper send-off.”

The pause you take, is more out of the mixture of nervous excitement and mild trepidation that comes at the thought of a real date with him, rather than the need to actually mull over the answer bubbling up from your throat, despite how casual you try to make it, “I-I suppose you’re right.” You swallow, to try and keep yourself from smiling too wide, “Dinner, then.”

“Dinner,” he confirms, pressing his lips back to yours briefly before releasing you for the door. “I’ll let you know what time once I have a reservation.”

“Sounds good,” you manage, sparing a look over your shoulder as you leave, and trying desperately to ignore the thundering in your chest at the thought of it.

Leaning on his door frame, Quentin calls, “Be seeing you, honey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note - ignore the shitty chapter titles lmao I'm just making shit up as I go; I suck at titles


End file.
